The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 3

  “Connors. Any news?”

  The clerk nodded as he stepped into the office. “Had the usual weekly visit from Lady P, and some urchin dropped this inside the front door and ran away,” he said as he placed a thick bundle of parchment and a scrap of paper displaying a scribble on one side.

  Intrigued, the editor took the papers and set them on his desk. “I’ll have today’s garden party article finished in a few minutes, but in the meantime, here’s the article from last night’s visit to the theatre.” He had attended a production at the Theatre-Royal in Covent Gardens in the hopes of overhearing gossip. He wasn’t disappointed. The tidbits would fill an entire column.

  “I’ll get this typeset right away, sir,” Connors said as he took the article.

  Pepperidge watched as his clerk made his way past the iron press and back to the front office, rather glad the young man didn’t seem suspicious as to the identity of the man for whom he had worked since the beginning of the gossip rag. The Tattler was nearly three years old, its start due to his extreme boredom and curious nature.

  And dwindling bank accounts.

  No matter where he went or what event he attended, gossip seemed to entertain more than the musicales or soirées or even the balls at which the gossip was exchanged.

  Which begged the question—would the average Londoner, far removed from the ton in terms of lifestyle and entertainments, be interested in gossip that featured members of the aristocracy? Were Londoners really that interested in the lives of those who made up the haute ton?

  Well, after circulation numbers increased ten-fold before the sixth issue rolled off the iron press at Tattler Publishing, he had his answer.

  A resounding Yes!

  What was it about gossip that had so many so eager to buy a weekly rag?

  Curiosity, of course. And perhaps a bit of spite. For to read about the foibles and farces of aristocrats meant they were just people at heart, people who were no better than the common folk who populated most of England. An accident of birth determined whether or not someone was an aristocrat or a commoner, after all. The fact that they would pay to read such dreck was as much a surprise as it was a windfall for his bank account.

  His coffers needed extra money to pay off his father’s gambling debts, although if he cut back on his gambling and replaced his older tenant farmers with younger ones, he might do just fine on the earldom’s income.

  But, he rather liked a game of whist now and again. And he didn’t wish to replace any of his tenant farmers. He had known some of them since he was a toddler.

  Seating himself at his massive mahogany desk, Felix opened his ink pot and pulled a sheet of parchment onto the blotter. He quickly wrote a summary of that day’s garden party, making sure to include notes about those in attendance, descriptions of the food on the refreshment table, and a compliment about the generous amount of champagne served by a phalanx of footmen. He mentioned the most welcome appearance of Lady Torrington, the garden party being her first ton event since giving birth to twins.

  He lifted his quill from the paper. He rather wished he’d had an opportunity to speak with Adele Slater Worthington Grandby. The countess was always a joy and sometimes dropped tidbits of gossip without realizing she was doing so. At least she looked well. She looked happy. As had Grandby. In fact, the earl looked as if he had youthened ten years as the result of becoming a father.

  Perhaps he had. Felix knew the man had been spotted in the company of his countess and an extra wide perambulator, proudly pushing the conveyance containing his twins whilst they took a walk in the park.

  Would I look as if I had youthened ten years should I become a father? he wondered.

  Trying to imagine himself in such a scenario, Felix found he could not. He could certainly imagine Emelia holding their babe, though.

  He shook his head and returned his attention to the parchment, remembering he should include a note about her return to London after a lengthy absence, and then he added a mention of the stylish design of her gown and pelisse.

  Here he paused and sighed. Even when he wasn’t thinking about her, he was thinking about her, it seemed.

  Aimsley’s instructions had been clear. He could call on her once a week for eight weeks. Then he could ask for her hand.

  Realizing he couldn’t yet put her out of his mind, he decided an invitation was in order. Drawing a sheet of stationery embossed with the seal of his earldom, Felix quickly penned a note to the Earl of Aimsley’s daughter.

  Dear Lady Emelia, I hope this note finds you happy and in good health. I thoroughly enjoyed our walk earlier today and all that it entailed. I do believe daffodils are now my favorite flower. It is my fondest desire to escort you (and your maid, of course) for a ride in the park during the fashionable hour. May I come by Aimsley House at four o’ clock to collect you? I look forward to your favourable reply. Very sincerely yours, Fennington.

  As he reread the missive, he realized he hadn’t indicated a day, but decided he would simply plan to be at her house every day until she appeared ready to leave with him. Or perhaps she would dictate the day in her rely.

  The thought of receiving a reply had a shiver running through his body. Faith! Is this why young couples were so ridiculous when they were in love? He felt almost giddy thinking about Emelia, his heart seemingly skipping a beat here and there.

  Too bad Aimsley had decreed he could see her only one day a week, though. Given the restriction, he hoped the calendar wouldn’t start its countdown until the following day. Aimsley certainly wouldn’t include today as one of the days, would he?

  Folding his note into a neat square, Felix dribbled some wax onto the seam where the four corners met at the back, and then stamped the Fennington seal into the hardening puddle.

  Although a courier would be by to pick up his mail first thing in the morning—probably before he was even in the office—this particular missive would need to leave from his townhouse in Bruton Street. No use having a courier wonder why an earl’s mail was included in letters from the publishing offices of The Tattler.

  Since he had the time, he pulled another sheet of Tattler Publishing stationery onto the blotter. He penned a note to Moyer, his private investigator, with instructions to look into Emelia Comber’s enrollment at Warwick’s. Remembering she had been in Geneva for four years, he narrowed down the timeline for when she would have been at Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School to at least four years ago. He wondered who else had attended the school at the same time. Certainly Mayfield’s daughter, Julia, and Chamberlain’s niece, Samantha. Maybe Bostwick’s wife. Would one of them know what had happened?

  Then he recalled her father’s comment about him not having a shiner.

  Felix straightened in the leather chair.

  Had Emelia punched someone?

  A grin split his face as he tried to imagine the demure young lady balling up a fist and hurling it into a man’s face. He frowned when he realized how much it had to have hurt her delicate hand. She might have broken a bone or two!

  Discover whatever happened to necessitate Lady Emelia Comber leaving the school in favor of attending one in Geneva, he wrote. A physical altercation may have been involved. ~ Pepperidge.

  Folding up the note, he made sure to use his other seal in the wax. The seal that displayed the name of his publication in an arc around the shapes of a quill and ink bottle.

  The Tattler.

  Once the wax was dry, he tossed it onto the salver for his courier.

  The scrap of paper the clerk had delivered still rested where he left it. Lifting it between two fingers, he struggled to make out the feminine writing.

  Lord M has made an offer to a courtesan for her services. Contract is said to be signed and a townhouse secured in Green Street.

  Frederick Pepperidge frowned. Lord M?

  Morganfield?

  He couldn’t imagine David Carlington arranging a mistress, not with the woman he had married, but then, he coul
dn’t think of another lord whose name began with an M, either. For tips such as this, he could simply print them as they were provided. In this case, he decided to do so. He risked an angry visit from the marquess, but he would simply explain it was a tip provided by someone else.

  Lady P’s thick bundle opened up once he had the yarn undone from around it. Three pages of gossip spilled forth, most of it notes from calls the old woman paid on other aristocrats’ wives. A good deal of cattiness on the part of the viscountess, to be sure, but then Lady P lived for gossip. He skimmed the notes, not particularly surprised by anything he read but he had to tamp down the urge to laugh at some of what he read.

  That is, until he reached the last page.

  A certain name jumped out at him.

  Lady Emelia has returned from her extended stay in Switzerland, presumedly because she has finally completed finishing school. Time will tell if four years away from her brothers has reformed the tomboy.

  Pepperidge blinked. And blinked again as he reread the entry.

  Lady Emelia, a tomboy?

  He couldn’t begin to imagine how the delicate woman he had escorted in the gardens—not two hours ago—and kissed with such abandon—could possibly have been a tomboy.

  She did have two brothers, though.

  Older brothers.

  Adam and Alistair Comber.

  Allowing a chuckle of mirth to burble forth, the editor took up his pen and inked through the comment about Emelia being a tomboy. He wondered if he dare ask her about it when he took her for a ride in the park.

  But another option seemed preferable. What if he asked her as Mr. Pepperidge? What if he arranged a meeting with her to allow her to comment on the news that she had been tomboy?

  Well, it would give him more time with the chit.

  Settling back in his deep leather chair, he considered how to write his next missive. Given Aimsley’s dictate that he could only court Emelia one day a week, perhaps this was a way he could see her more often. In secret.

  He had to.

  He already knew he would spend the entire night tossing and turning with thoughts of Emelia. Perhaps he would even pull a pillow against his body and hold it as he hoped to one day hold her in his bed.

  No wonder some of the men in the ton behaved as they did with their wives. They enjoyed kissing!

  Kisses.

  Emelia’s kisses had been magical. He might have initiated them, but she had returned them measure for measure. With passion. With her body pressed entirely against his. Although he didn’t expect he’d be able to kiss her again until the day of their betrothal, he could at least imagine kissing her again.

  Just to be in her company would tide him over for a time. A half-hour. Just the two of them. Alone.

  The idea that came to him was so brilliant, so unexpected, Felix blinked several times as he reconsidered it. A way to meet her in the park—just the two of them—alone.

  Was it too cruel, though?

  Possibly.

  Would it work?

  Well, of course, if the young lady was the least bit concerned over gossip about her appearing in The Tattler. She had just returned to London, after all. The very last thing she would welcome was gossip that had her kissing out in the open, in broad daylight, during a ton event.

  Oh, and the reminder that she had at one time been a tomboy.

  He pulled a sheet of The Tattler stationery onto the blotter. Changing his handwriting so the lettering was straighter than his normal slanted hand, he composed a letter proposing a bargain.

  Dear Lady Emelia, As the editor of The Tattler, London’s leading publication on gossip, I was most intrigued when I paid witness to your time spent with Lord Fennington in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens yesterday. Would others be as surprised as I was when you kissed the earl? And not just a quick peck on the cheek, a la the French way of greeting a friend, but rather a series of passionate kisses that took my breath away?

  He shook himself. Careful, he thought, aware of the growing bulge behind the placket of his doeskin breeches.

  Imagine the feature article I could write about such an event! Lady E Plants a Kiss on the Earl of F in Lord W’s Garden! Will Love Bloom? Or Wilt, Once the Ton Weeds Her Out of Their Garden?

  What might have me reconsidering the publication of such an article?

  You, my lady. Your presence in Hyde Park. Thursday mornings at eight o’ clock for eight weeks. You bring the gossip you collect from the calls you pay on other ladies and the on-dit you hear during soirées and musicales. In return, I shall not print a word about your elicit kisses with Lord F.

  If you agree, meet me this Thursday at the park bench located as per the map below.

  Sincerely, Mr. Frederick Pepperidge, Editor

  Sighing, Felix drew the map of where a particularly well-sheltered park bench was located not too far from the park’s main carriageway. Hidden by a hedgerow and a series of bushes and other plantings, and given the early morning hour, the bench would afford them time away from prying eyes. It would also give him an opportunity to learn if Emelia was really as demure as he believed or if she were truly a tomboy as Lady P asserted.

  Would she tattle on her fellow ladies? Share the latest on-dit? Revel in the foibles of others? Or instead behave as a perfect lady, insisting there wasn’t any gossip of interest for his readers?

  Although he could always use more fodder for the gossip rag, he rather hoped she would prove as demure and ladylike as he suspected she was.

  Would she show up for their meetings, though? Would she take his letter seriously? He truly meant her no harm, but this kind of offer had to be too good for her to pass up.

  Show up or risk the ton’s censure.

  Oh, call it what it is, he scolded himself.

  Blackmail.

  Sighing, he quickly folded the letter and applied The Tattler’s seal to the wax. Carefully addressing it so his handwriting matched that of the note inside, he tossed it onto the salver and went about writing the other articles for the next edition of The Tattler.

  Chapter 4

  Invitations Aren’t Always So Welcome

  There was a moment after completing the invitation when we nearly tore it into tiny pieces. We probably should have done so, but can you really blame us for wanting to spend more time in a lady’s company? ~ The final editor’s article in the May 14, 1818 issue of the The Tattler.

  March 14, 1818 in the Aimsley House salon

  Patience Comber, Countess of Aimsley, watched her daughter as the young woman opened invitation after invitation. “Are there any you’d like to attend?” she asked as she poured tea into the dainty cups she had inherited from her grandmother.

  “All of them,” Emelia replied happily. “Although, I dare say we shall never spend a quiet evening at home if I do.”

  The countess added a lump of sugar to her cup of tea and gave the other to Emelia after adding a dollop of cream. “Every Season offers more events, it seems. Now that almost all the theatres have been rebuilt, or are in the process of being rebuilt—Little Drury Lane will be finished later this year—we could be entertained by opera or plays or a naval reenactment nearly every night.”

  Emelia grinned as she took a sip of her tea. When she opened the next note, she frowned at the odd seal on the back. Her brows furrowed as she began to read. They furrowed deeper as she finished reading, her head shaking from side to side. “No, no, no,” she murmured, turning the missive over again so she could study the seal on the back again. The Tattler. A gossip newspaper, she realized.

  “What is it, darling?” Patience asked as she quickly placed her cup in its saucer and moved to get up from the floral settee.

  “Oh, it’s just disappointing news, is all,” Emelia replied quickly as she waved her mother to stay where she was. “The Burroughs’ return to London has been delayed a few weeks. I was hoping Sophia would be able to join me at some of these entertainments, is all,” she explained quickly. She had read So
phia’s letter before all of the invitations, but the news of their delay in travel wasn’t unexpected. Andrew Burroughs had warned her they might stop and play tourist in some of the cities along the way, not unlike what Emelia had done during her travels back to London.

  “Oh,” Patience managed as she helped herself to a lemon biscuit, still wondering at her daughter’s odd reaction. Well, she supposed she could take a peek at the letter later. “You never did say how it went with Fenn yesterday.”

  Emelia blinked. “Fenn?” she repeated, her mind still on the fact that someone had paid witness to the kisses she had exchanged with the Earl of Fennington.

  “Yes, Fennington.” The countess suddenly rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t know him as ‘Fenn’, of course. He was Adam’s very best friend in school. His mother—the dowager countess—is a gem. Too bad her husband was so bad at gambling. Left her practically penniless. Fenn has had to shore up the family accounts in order to keep the earldom from falling into ruin.”

  Emelia’s eyes widened. She wondered how he’d been able to manage. “So, he’s one who might pursue a young lady for her dowry?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Her mother seemed to shrink into the settee, as if she had never before considered Fennington’s financial matters as they might relate to taking a wife. “I suppose it’s possible,” she murmured. “I so hoped you two would suit. I think he did, too.”

  Oh, if only I could tell her we did, Emelia thought with a sigh. But she had no idea if the earl would ever come near her after what had happened in the gardens. He probably thought her fast. Probably thought her a wanton.

  Probably knew about her reputation. He was good friends with Adam, after all.

  Had her brother told him why his little sister had to go to Switzerland for finishing school?

  Despondent, she hung her head and stared at the last note, not actually seeing the seal that covered the space where the four corners met.

  She blinked and flipped the note over. A bright white envelope sealed in red wax. An earldom’s seal. Tearing it open, she read in haste, not believing the words that appeared before her.