Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane Gaston

to the day that he’d lain with Lydia.

      Levenhorne pounded his fist on the table. “She’s pulling a fast one on me, I’d wager on it, and she has my hands tied until the ten months is over. Crafty wench. There’s not a blasted thing I can do about it.” He sighed. “Except hope the baby comes late or she pushes out a girl.”

      Adrian made himself sit very still lest he launch himself over the table and put a fist into the other man’s face.

      This child, girl or boy, to which Levenhorne so scathingly referred, might be Adrian’s, and Lydia did not deserve to be spoken of in such a coarse manner.

      Adrian stood. “Forgive me, Levenhorne. I must be on my way.”

      Levenhorne glanced up at him again. “I have your word you will tell no one of our conversation?”

      “You have my word.”

      Adrian walked out, collected his hat and gloves and left White’s. He headed back into Mayfair, again walking by Lydia’s house.

      The reporters still clustered. He did not see Samuel Reed, the man who seemed to know more and do more damage than the others.

      Adrian continued past the house. He decided he must gain entry in another way besides knocking upon her door in front of the London press. He’d return when daylight was gone, and somehow, some way, he’d speak to Lydia before the dawn of a new day.

      Reed stood near Lady Wexin’s side gate. Night was falling and he waited with anticipation for Mary to appear.

      Sweet Mary. He liked meeting her this way, in secret, at a time he might pull her into a dark corner and steal a few kisses. He liked it a bit too much, knowing he must eventually cut off the liaison. He just hoped he could do it without her discovering his true purpose for romancing her. Dear sweet Mary. He despised the idea of causing her that kind of hurt.

      He heard the familiar creak of the gate and stepped out from the shadows. She ran towards him, propelling herself into his arms.

      “Oh, Samuel, I am so glad to see you,” she cried against his chest.

      She was hatless and wore only a thin knitted shawl over her dress to ward off the evening’s chill. He wrapped his arms around her tighter.

      “I am glad to see you, too,” he responded truthfully. She smelled so clean. Of lavender and soap.

      She clung to him. “I have had the most wretched day!”

      He kissed her on top of her head, his heart beating faster. “Tell me what has happened.”

      “Well, the reporters are back.” She moved out of his embrace and rearranged her shawl. “One of them wrote something in the newspaper, and now they are all back.”

      “What did he write?” As if Samuel did not know.

      Her hand fluttered to her forehead. “I do not know, really, but it upset m’lady.”

      He reached for her again. “Is that all it is? Newspaper reporters?”

      She didn’t fall back into his arms as he’d hoped. “And then his lordship came.”

      “His lordship?” Samuel felt a rush of excitement.

      “Lord Levenhorne. He inherits Lord Wexin’s estate.” She paused. “Unless…”

      “Unless what?”

      She shook her head and her curls bounced around her face. “Oh, I do not understand all this. I just know m’lady is made unhappy by it.”

      He took her in his arms once again. “Do not fret, love. Is it about money? Wealthy people seem always to distress themselves about money.”

      She snuggled against him. “I suspect so. It is about the inheritance at any rate.”

      She felt so good next to him that he could hardly think and hardly wanted to. Mary had never actually told him Lady Wexin was going to have a child, but she’d skirted around the topic enough for him to guess.

      Mary lifted her face and looked at him with her huge, trusting eyes. Samuel felt a twinge of conscience for pressing her. Enough for one night. He could concentrate on Lord Levenhorne next and just enjoy being with Mary for a while.

      He dipped his head and touched his lips to hers, so soft and sweet.

      Yes, he would enjoy these stolen kisses with Mary. He would enjoy them very much.

       Chapter Eight

      Does she hide out of shame? What would it be like, we wonder, Dear Readers, to carry the child of a murderer in one’s womb? —The New Observer, April 11, 1819

      Adrian watched the maid locked in the embrace of her lover. The two stumbled into the garden, still in each other’s arms.

      They had left the gate slightly open. Adrian stole over and peeked in. The lovers were headed for a far corner, away from the house.

      Adrian had planned to knock at the front door, to be announced to Lydia properly even if the hour was unforgivably late, but one of the newspapers had left a young fellow watching the house, so Adrian had walked on by. He turned the corner just when the maid and her lover had wrapped their arms around each other.

      It was all too easy. Adrian slipped through the gap in the gate and crept through the shadows to the back door. When he reached the door, it was unlatched.

      He walked in, still intending to announce himself.

      Sounds came from the kitchen, but when he peeked in, he could see no one. He continued to the stairs, climbing them as quietly as he could and opening the door a crack to see if anyone was in the hall.

      Empty.

      He ought to call out. Announce his presence.

      Instead he climbed the marble stairs and saw a glow of light coming from the drawing room. Taking in a breath and holding it, he opened the door.

      Lydia rose from a chair near the window, book in hand. An oil lamp on the table next to her gave more illumination than the waning daylight through the glass. The lamp lit her face with a soft glow, making her hair appear tinged with gold where the light touched it.

      He had forgotten how lovely she was.

      She gasped and dropped her book.

      He stepped into the light. “Forgive me, Lydia, I know I intrude.”

      “Adrian!” Her voice was breathless. She took a step forwards as if glad to see him, but she quickly shrank back. “Why didn’t Dixon announce you?”

      “He does not know I am here.” He gave a rueful smile. “I fear no one knows I am here. I truly did intrude, Lydia. I entered without anyone seeing me.”

      “Without anyone seeing you?” She picked up her book, closing it and placing it on the table.

      “I entered through the back door.” He did not wish to get the maid into trouble. “One of your servants stepped out for a moment, and I came in unseen.” Saying it made him realise how outrageously he’d acted.

      She looked rightfully indignant. “You sneaked into my house?”

      “I know it sounds bad,” he said with chagrin. “But there was a fellow watching the front door. From a newspaper, I expect.” He paused, feeling as if he was not making sense. “Otherwise I would have knocked for admittance.”

      She held up a hand, stopping his explanation. “Never mind. Tell me why you are here when I asked you not to call upon me again.”

      “The newspaper this morning—” he began.

      She swung away. “That—that—horrid paper.”

      In the low light and with her loose dress, he could not perceive any telltale changes signalling her condition. If anything, her figure appeared