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 the previous day when she’d gone to the market. For the last several days, Reed had seen only this maid and the butler entering and leaving the house. He’d surmised that Lady Wexin had dismissed most of the servants.
He’d been able to locate one of Lady Wexin’s former footmen, but the man refused to confirm whether or not other servants had left her employment. The man had refused to say anything newsworthy about Lady Wexin, but perhaps a maid might have knowledge a footman would not.
He watched her fold the cloth and re-enter the house. A carriage sounded at the end of the street, and he quickly darted into the shadows until the carriage continued past him.
He glanced at the moonlit sky. Time to walk back to the newspaper offices, get some dinner and write his story for the next edition, such as it was.
If only he could identify the gentleman who had come to Lady Wexin’s aid. He could make something of that information. The man was familiar, but he did not know all the gentlemen of the ton by sight. He’d keep his eyes open, though, and hope to discover the man’s identity soon enough.
Chapter Three
The scandalous Lady W— walks about Mayfair without a companion…or was it her intention to rendezvous with a certain gentleman? Beware, fine sir. Recall to what ends a man may be driven when Beauty is the prize…—The New Observer, November 14, 1818
Sheets of relentless rain kept indoors all but the unfortunate few whose livelihood forced them outside. Adrian was not in this category, but he willingly chose to venture forth with the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, the damp soaking its way through his topcoat and water seeping into his boots.
He turned into Hill Street, watchful for the reporters who’d lounged around Lady Wexin’s door the previous day when he’d made it a point to stroll by. As he suspected and dared hope, no one was in sight.
To be certain, he continued past the house to the end of the street and then back again. Not another living creature was about.
Apparently there were some things a newspaper reporter would not do in pursuit of a story, like standing in the pouring rain in near freezing temperatures. Adrian was not so faint of heart. What was a little water dripping from the brim of his hat, soaking his collar and causing his neck to chafe? A mere annoyance when he might see Lydia again.
Still, he wished he might have brought his umbrella.
Adrian strode up to the green door of the Wexin townhouse and sounded the brass lion’s-head knocker.
No one answered.
He sounded the knocker again and pressed his ear against the wooden door. He heard heels click on the hall’s marble floor.
“Open,” he called through the door. “It is Pomroy. Calling upon Lady Wexin.”
“Who?” a man’s muffled voice asked.
“Pomroy,” Adrian responded. He paused. He’d forgotten again. “Lord Cavanley,” he said louder.
He heard the footsteps receding, but pounded with the knocker again, huddling in the narrow doorcase so that only his back suffered the soaking rain. He planned to knock until he gained entry.
Finally, the footsteps returned and the door was opened a crack, a man’s eye visible in it.
“I am Lord Cavanley, calling upon Lady Wexin.” Adrian spoke through the crack.
The eye stared.
“On a matter of business.” Adrian reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly damp card. He handed it through the narrow opening. “Have pity, man. Do you think I wish to stand out in the rain?”
The eye disappeared and, after a moment, the crack widened to reveal Lady Wexin’s butler. The man was of some indeterminate age, anywhere from thirty to fifty. He did not wear livery and possessed the right mix of hauteur and servitude that befitted a butler. Adrian liked the protective look in the man’s eye.
“Be so good as to wait here a moment, m’lord.” The butler bowed and walked away, his heels clicking on each step as he ascended the marble stairs.
Adrian remembered carrying Lydia up those flights of stairs.
His gaze followed the butler, puzzled as to why the man had not taken his coat and hat, but left him standing in the hall like a visiting merchant.
Adrian removed his hat and gloves as puddles formed at his feet on the marble floor. The gilded table still held its vases, and the vases were still empty of flowers.
Finally the butler’s footsteps sounded again as he descended and made his unhurried way back to Adrian. “I will take you to Lady Wexin.”
Adrian handed him his hat and gloves and removed his soaked topcoat carefully so as to lessen both the size of the puddles and the amount of rainwater pouring down the back of his neck. He waited again while the butler disappeared with the sodden items, daring to hope the man might lay them out in front of some fire to dry a bit.
When the butler returned, he led Adrian up the stairs to a first-floor drawing room. Even standing in the doorway, Adrian could feel the room’s chill. There was a fire in the fireplace, but Adrian guessed it must have just been lit.
Lydia’s back was to him. She stood with arms crossed in front of her, facing the window that looked out at the rain.
“Lord Cavanley,” the butler announced.
She turned, and her beautiful sapphire eyes widened. “You!”
The butler stepped between her and Adrian.
She waved a dismissive hand. “It is all right, Dixon. I will see this gentleman.”
Frowning, the butler bowed, tossing Adrian a suspicious glance as he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Adrian was taken aback. “I announced myself to your man.”
She shook her head. “But you are Mr Pomroy.”
He realised the mistake. “Forgive me.” He smiled at her. “You must not know me as Cavanley.”
“I certainly do not!” She stepped forwards and gripped the back of a red velvet chair. Her forehead suddenly furrowed. “Did…did your father pass away? I confess, I did not know—”
He held up his hand. “Nothing like that.” He caught himself staring at her and gave himself a mental shake. “Well, a cousin of his passed away, but he was quite elderly and had been ill for many years. My father inherited the title, Earl