Scandalising the Ton. Diane Gaston

Adrian smiled. “Not likely I’d tell you if I were in a scrape, though.”

      His father laughed. “You have the right of it. Never knew you not to get yourself out of whatever bumble-broth you’d landed in.”

      It was perhaps more accurate to say Tanner always managed the disentanglement, but Adrian’s father probably knew that very well.

      “What is it, then, my son?” his father persisted.

      Adrian certainly did not intend to tell his father about his encounter with Lady Wexin. Likely his father would see it as a conquest about which he could brag to his friends. Adrian was not in the habit of worrying over the secrecy of his affairs, but Lady Wexin’s name had been bandied about so unfairly, he had no wish to add to the gossip about her.

      Adrian did wish he could explain to his father the discontent he’d been feeling lately. His father would in all likelihood pooh-pooh it as nonsense, however.

      His father seemed to believe there could be no better life than the one Adrian led, spending his days and nights gambling, womanising and sporting. Adrian had lately wished for more than horse races or card games or opera dancers, however. He was tired of having no occupation, no purpose, of feeling it would take his father’s death to bring some utility to his existence.

      Adrian’s discontent had begun about a year ago when he’d accompanied Tanner on a tour of his friend’s estates. He’d marvelled at Tanner’s knowledge of his properties and the people who saw to the running of them. Adrian had learned a great deal about farming, raising livestock, and managing a country estate during that trip, more than his father had ever taught him. Adrian’s restlessness had increased recently after learning of Tanner’s sudden marriage. He did not begrudge his friend’s newfound domestic happiness; surprisingly enough, he envied it.

      His father came to an abrupt halt. “Good God, this is not about some woman, is it? Do not tell me. I’ll wager it is Lady Denson. The word is she is quite enamoured of you, as well any woman would be.”

      An image of Lydia flew into Adrian’s mind, not Viola Denson, who had indeed engaged in a flirtation with Adrian, but one in which he could not sustain an interest.

      “Not Lady Denson,” he replied. “Nor any woman, if you must know.”

      And it seemed his father always wanted to know about Adrian’s romantic conquests. He told his father as little as possible about them.

      If his father were paying attention to more than Adrian’s love life and gambling wins, he’d recall that his son had asked to take over some of the family’s lesser holdings. He’d thought it proper to ease his father’s new burdens of all the Varcourt properties, but the new Earl of Varcourt would have none of it. “Plenty of time for all that,” his father had said. “Enjoy yourself while you can.”

      Adrian glanced at his father, a faithful husband, excellent manager, dutiful member of the House of Lords. His father might glorify the delights of his son’s bachelorhood, but, even without those delights in his own life, his father was a contented man.

      Unlike Adrian.

      Adrian attempted to explain. “I am bored—”

      His father laughed. “Bored? A young buck like you? Why, you can do anything you wish. Enjoy life.”

      He could do anything, perhaps, but nothing of value, Adrian thought. “The enjoyment is lacking at the moment.”

      “Lacking? Impossible.” His father clapped him on the shoulder. “You sound like a man in need of a new mistress.”

      Again Adrian thought of Lydia.

      “Find yourself a new woman,” his father advised. “That’s the ticket. That Denson woman, if she wants it.”

      Typical of his father to think in that manner. His father had inherited young, married young and lived a life of exemplary conduct, but that did not stop him from enjoying the exploits of his son.

      “Do not forget,” his father went on, “your friend Tanner’s marriage has deprived you of some companionship, but you’ll soon accustom yourself to going about without him.” His father laughed. “Imagine Tanner in a Scottish marriage. With the Vanishing Viscountess, no less. Just like him to enter into some ramshackle liaison and wind up smelling of roses.”

      Indeed. Under the most unlikely of circumstances Tanner had met the perfect woman for him. Why, his wife was even a baroness in her own right, a very proper wife for a marquess.

      Adrian’s father launched into a repeat of the whole story of Tanner’s meeting the Vanishing Viscountess, of aiding her flight and of them both thwarting Wexin. Adrian only half-listened.

      Adrian glanced at his father. The man was as tall, straight-backed and clear-eyed as he’d been all Adrian’s life. Even his blond hair was only lately fading to white. He did not need Adrian’s help managing the properties or anything else.

      Adrian was nearly seven and thirty years. How long would it be before he had any responsibility at all?

      “Did you know Wexin’s townhouse is on Hill Street?” he suddenly heard his father say.

      “Mmm,” Adrian managed. Of course he knew.

      “Strathfield purchased it as a wedding gift. Nice property. There’s been a pack of newspaper folks hanging around the door for days now. I agree with Levenhorne. Those newspaper fellows know a thing or two about Lady Wexin that we do not.”

      Adrian bristled. “Tanner says—”

      His father scoffed. “Yes. Yes. Tanner says she is innocent, but when you have lived as long as I have, son, you learn that where one sees smoke, there is usually fire.”

      There was certainly a fire within Lady Wexin, but not the sort to which his father referred.

      They reached Berkeley Square. His father stopped him before the door of the Varcourt house. “When your mother gives the word, you must give up your rooms and take over the old townhouse. She is still dithering about what furniture to move, I believe, so I do not know how long it will take.”

      Splendid. Adrian had wanted an estate to manage. He would wind up with a house instead.

      * * *

      Samuel Reed stood among three other reporters near the entrance of Lady Wexin’s townhouse. His feet pained him, he was hungry, chilled to the bone and tired of this useless vigil. The lady was not going to emerge.

      “I say we take turns,” one of the men was saying. “We agree to share any information about who enters the house or where she goes if she ventures out.”

      “You talk a good game,” another responded. “But how do we know you would keep your word? You’d be the last fellow to tell what you know.”

      The man was wrong. Reed would be the last fellow to tell what he knew. He was determined that The New Observer, the newspaper he and his brother Phillip owned, would have exclusive information about Lady Wexin. He’d not said a word to the others that he’d caught the lady out and about. She’d been walking from the direction of the shops. Why had she gone off alone?

      He glanced at the house, but there was nothing to see. Curtains covered the windows. “I’m done for today,” he told the others.

      “Don’t expect us to tell you if something happens,” one called to him.

      Reed walked down John Street, slowing his pace as he passed the garden entrance. He peered through a crack between the planks of the wooden gate.

      To his surprise, the rear door opened, though it was not Lady Wexin who emerged but her maid, shaking out table linen.

      Reed’s stomach growled. It appeared that Lady Wexin had enjoyed a dinner. He certainly had not. He watched the maid, a very pretty little thing with dark auburn hair peeking out from beneath her cap. Reed had seen the young woman before, had even followed her