Eleven
Lyman had no further word from Michael in the days following his unexpected visit, although what he saw in the libel his brother-in-law had left behind made him dread their next encounter. They seemed to have drummed up anyone they could find who might say something damning about him, though the list was small and the accusations vague—an old friend he hadn’t spoken to in years and a disgruntled former housemaid who were willing to pretend they’d seen him engaged in scandalous behavior. Lyman was less insulted by the fact that these people were willing to spin lies about him than by the fact that they were being so ham-fisted about it. He would never have been so indiscreet as what they described.
But the false allegations were nothing compared to the truth: The sections that detailed his every failing as a husband, the circumstances of the end of his marriage, and the fact that he hadn’t spoken to Ellen in nine years. It was one thing to live with it on the back of his conscience; quite another to see it all laid out in black and white.
Lyman tucked the document into a desk drawer and tried not to dwell on it any longer.
Nor was there any news from Miss Danby. He’d half expected her to write him after he’d rebuffed her invitation, or worse, extract his address from Armstrong and show up at his door. She’d certainly proven herself daring enough for such a feat. Lyman couldn’t keep himself from asking Mrs. Hirsch whether there had been any further mail for him at least twice a day, driving the poor woman mad with his persistence. But the only note addressed to him was a hasty scrawl from Mr. Wood left on the dining table, instructing whoever had come in late the other night to please keep his voice down in consideration of his fellow lodgers.
He couldn’t put off their reunion indefinitely, however, for Friday was the date of the meeting they’d arranged with Mr. Armstrong to discuss the terms of her publishing contract. Lyman went early, to discuss his revisions to the second edition of his London guide first, but the time flew by so quickly that he’d barely started when the secretary announced that Miss Danby and Mr. Peter Danby had arrived.
Lyman had only a second to take in Miss Danby’s expression, precious little time to gauge how they were to act with each other, before her brother was pumping his hand in the most exuberant manner imaginable and asking him something about beer.
“I beg your pardon?” Lyman extracted himself from the handshake as politely as he could. He hadn’t heard a word the fellow had said.
He glanced to Miss Danby again, bracing himself for the anger or condemnation that would surely be written on her face. She always wore her emotions too openly, and Lyman doubted very much that ravishing her in an alley and then jilting her the next day had elevated him in her esteem.
But her brother positioned himself maddingly close to Lyman, blocking his view. “The Lamb and Flag. In Covent Garden. I wonder that you didn’t include it, only Della tells me you’re working on the second edition. I say, it would be a fine addition to the chapter on public houses.”
There was a strong resemblance between the siblings. Both Miss Danby and her brother were quite plump, with round faces and rosy cheeks. They also shared the same brown hair shot with strands of bronze, dark eyes, and easy smile. Both had no reserve to their manners, launching into conversation as if every stranger was an old friend. But where Lyman had grown used to Miss Danby treating him like a confidante, on her brother he found the unearned intimacy jarring.
“I may have already added it, Mr. Danby; I’ll have to look over my manuscript. Thank you for the suggestion.”
He finally got a good look at the man’s sister, who had been obliged to walk around his back to make herself noticed. She caught Lyman’s eye and mouthed, I’m so sorry .
About their tryst or about something else? Inexplicably, this felt worse than her anger. It was the last thing Lyman had expected. He didn’t like to think that he’d made her regret anything.
“Peter.” She placed a hand lightly atop her brother’s shoulder. “I’m sure Lord Ashton has his book well in hand. We’re here to discuss my book, remember?”
Oh. She’d been apologizing for her brother. The relief Lyman felt was as swift as it was surprising.
“Come now.” Peter Danby rolled his eyes at his sister’s words, with a chuckle that made his reply sound more indulgent than quarrelsome. “The Gentleman’s Guide is the real authority. Everyone knows that.”
Lyman frowned, but said nothing. Did Mr. Danby realize he’d snubbed his own sister in front of the rest of them? He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again quickly. Della was more than capable of standing up for herself. Better not to make a fuss in front of Armstrong if that wasn’t what she wanted.
“Shall we go over the contract together?” Mr. Armstrong suggested, motioning them to sit. There were only two chairs, so Lyman insisted the Danbys take them while Armstrong sent an underling in search of a third. Armstrong passed several pages from his desk to Mr. Danby, then handed a second copy to Lyman. There was no copy for Della. “Here you are. It’s all quite standard. I’ll give you a moment to read through, shall I?”
Della was craning her neck to peer over her brother’s shoulder—a difficult task, as she was at least five inches shorter than him. Lyman observed them for a moment, unnoticed. Now she tugged on Mr. Danby’s arm to signal her difficulty, but he only waved her away, turning to the second page before she’d even glimpsed the first.
Lyman cleared his throat softly. “Miss Danby, would you like to share my copy?”
“Thank you.” The flush that dusted her cheeks betrayed her annoyance. Lyman stepped nearer the large oak desk and set his copy of the contract where she could read it, bracing one hand on the back of her chair as he leaned forward to join her. Her lemon-drop scent filled his lungs as they bowed their head and read in unison. Before he could stop himself, Lyman had drawn a deep breath, savoring the sensation.
What in God’s name are you doing?
It was too late for that. Though he tried to force his mind to the task at hand, his body had already stepped into the snare. At this angle, her gown displayed her breasts to a thrilling degree. The cut of her necklace would no doubt have been modest enough on a lady with less to show, or if they’d both been standing, or if Lyman hadn’t spent the last three days wondering what pleasure would have been in store for him if he’d only gone to see her that night as planned. In the circumstances, it was enough to break his restraint. Now Miss Danby was biting her lip as she read, and all he could think of was how desperately he longed to kiss her again. Nothing too serious. Just a taste. Couldn’t he let himself have that little glimpse of pleasure before he bid her goodbye and returned to his barren existence? Lord, he needed… something . Not more nothing. He’d had years and years of nothing, and it was crushing the life out of him.
The realization hitched Lyman’s breath in his throat.
Armstrong’s assistant finally returned with the extra chair, and Lyman took it gratefully. It was dangerous to keep leaning over Miss Danby this way.
She looked up just then and caught him staring at her instead of the contract. Her rich brown eyes were large and vulnerable, framed by thick lashes. She leaned closer to him.
“What does this part mean?” she whispered, so softly the others might not have heard it, even in the still room.
Lyman drew an unsteady breath, willing himself back to self-control. She needed him, but not as a lover. As a friend.
He read the passage where the tip of her finger had come to rest. Though couched in awkward legal language, it was only a provision that set out the same duration on copyright and renewal that was already in the Statute of Anne. No need to include it, really.
Lyman was selfish enough to inch closer and breathe his answer into Della’s ear, instead of speaking aloud. “It only means they can apply to renew the copyright after it expires, but you likely don’t need to worry about that. It lasts fourteen years, and a guidebook won’t have any value after that long.”
She shuddered against the caress of his voice, and it took every ounce of self-control to pull back before he ran his mouth down the small of her neck and tasted the heat of her skin. They weren’t alone. Armstrong or her brother might look over at their whispering any minute. Lyman pulled back and turned away, looking to the painting on the far wall and struggling to get himself under control. He could read the contract later.
It was nothing. This was nothing. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see that she didn’t understand the words, and he’d whispered in her ear to protect her pride, that was all.
He had a great deal of practice with lying to himself.
They made it through the contract discussions somehow, Armstrong offering explanations to Miss Danby’s brother, who did nothing more than nod and say, “I thoroughly agree,” a few times.
“Would you like to wait and have your solicitor read it over?” Lyman suggested, fearing Miss Danby might be utterly without guidance, if this was the best she had.
“I’d rather have done with it than postpone things further. Tell me, do you think it’s a sound deal, Lord Ashton?”
Lyman’s heart began to race. There it was again, that thoughtless trust she had in him. Why should she put herself so completely in the care of a man she barely knew? And with the same confidence she did all things, sure in the knowledge that no one would ever want to harm her.
Because she believes you to be a good man, and you haven’t had the decency to show her what you really are. The thought slithered into his mind unbidden, leaving a trail of slime in its wake.
Do better, then , he told himself, in a futile effort to chase the feeling away. Do the best you can, at least .
Lyman picked the contract back up and skimmed through, looking for any differences with his own agreement.
“You’re only offering sixty pounds for the book?” he observed, raising his eyes to Armstrong. “After I take my share, that’s only forty for Miss Danby. You gave me a hundred and ten for mine.”
“Lord Ashton, surely you see that this book is more of a risk than your own. We were confident that readers would want the opinion of a viscount on fashionable life in London. While Miss Danby’s idea has potential, we don’t expect it will reach the same audience.”
“Not the same audience.” Lyman agreed. “But their money is the same, isn’t it? I’m sure you can do a bit better than sixty.”
In the end, Armstrong relented and they came out at eighty pounds. Once all had signed and the ink was dry, Lyman saw them out to their carriage, which awaited them on Paternoster.
“Thank you,” Miss Danby’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment. “I appreciate what you did.”
“It was no more than you’ve a right to.” He inclined his head, hoping his discomfort at the praise didn’t show too plainly. He always chafed at compliments.
“Where is your carriage, my lord?” Mr. Danby asked, peering at every coach that happened by, as if one with the Ashton livery might materialize from the fog.
“I walk most everywhere I go,” Lyman admitted, unwilling to lie in front of Miss Danby. Not when she had just placed her trust in him.
“Walk? In town?” Danby couldn’t conceal his surprise at this. A moment later he recollected himself. “Well, I suppose it must come in useful for your books if you know every neighborhood.”
Lyman murmured something like an assent, but Danby didn’t really seem to be listening. He was already on to his next idea.
“It was so wonderful to meet you. Why don’t you call on us sometime? Not for Della’s little project, I mean, purely a social call. We’d love to get to know you better.”
“Oh.” Lyman shot a glance to Miss Danby, but she appeared as unprepared for this turn as he was, her dark eyes growing round. “I—”
“Our parents are having an intimate get-together the Friday after next,” Danby continued, without seeming to realize that he’d just interrupted a viscount. “You should join us.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.” Miss Danby and her brother were too young to have run in the same circles as he had nine years ago, but their parents might recall his marriage to Ellen and its unsavory conclusion. He doubted he’d be as welcome as Peter Danby presumed.
“Nonsense. You’d be doing us a service. My parents are always trying to get this one to join us more often, instead of—” Danby cut himself off without finishing his sentence, a mild panic contorting his features.
“It’s all right, Peter,” Miss Danby said, in a tone of long-suffering patience. “Lord Ashton already knows about my club.”
“Ah.” Her brother drew a breath, his shoulders loosening. “Yes, of course. Well, as you can imagine, they do wish she’d attend the usual events a bit more often instead of frittering away all her time at that chocolate house.”
“If they wanted me at the rout, they might have scheduled it on a Monday, when they know I’m free.” Though her manner was easy, Miss Danby’s eyes had lost their usual warmth.
“Who does anything on a Monday, though?”
“Thank you for the invitation,” Lyman interjected. “It’s very kind, but I—”
“Excellent! We’ll see you on February 11. Come by for supper first, say around eight?”
Before Lyman could so much as blink, Peter Danby had pumped his hand twice, tipped his hat, and disappeared into his carriage without even thinking to hand his sister inside.
Lyman could do nothing but stare at Miss Danby, who seemed vaguely amused by the entire ordeal. “What just happened?” he murmured.
“I believe you’ve agreed to join us for dinner, though I can’t promise I’ll be there unless Mrs. Williams is free to mind the club. Have fun with my family, I suppose. I’m warning you now, I’m the most interesting one of the lot.”
Her smile was full of humor, but it faded into an awkward silence as they stood alone before the carriage.
Della cleared her throat delicately.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” Lyman murmured. “I wanted to come, but…”
She arched one dark brow. “But?”
Why had he said that? Now she expected something from him, some promise to try again, when he’d resolved to put an end to this. The words had slipped out of him without any forethought. It shouldn’t be so damnably hard to extricate himself from the attentions of one plucky miss.
Peter Danby stuck his head out of their carriage. “Are you coming, Della?”
The coachman stood waiting for her at the door, watching them.
“Give us a moment, please,” she called back. “We have important matters to discuss for my book.” She inclined her head to indicate that they should walk a little farther down the road, to the relative privacy of the stoop of someone else’s front door.
Lyman offered his arm and tried not to savor the way her soft curves fit so neatly against his side.
“Well?” she prodded, once they’d put a few yards between themselves and her brother.
Lyman bit the bullet. “I had a lovely time with you, but we can’t carry on this way. The risk if we’re found out is too great.”
Della sighed and glanced away, pressing her lips together. “I must admit I’d hoped you might have more backbone.”
“It isn’t about backbone,” he replied. Despite himself, the judgment stung. “I’m perfectly willing to risk my own reputation. It’s not as though I’m a paragon of moral virtue anyway. But I won’t risk yours.”
Della gave a short, humorless laugh at this. “How noble of you! I’m lucky I have a viscount to make these decisions for me, or I might have to shoulder the difficult task of deciding for myself what risks to run.”
Lyman bit his tongue. He probably deserved that, but it didn’t change his mind. If their union had been dangerous before, Michael’s plans to drag him before Parliament would magnify it a hundredfold. He didn’t want that on his conscience. Better to keep his distance than to bring his ruination to her doorstep.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m grateful for the pleasure of your company this past week. It meant a great deal to me.” More than he could explain. He’d felt alive for the first time in years, but he should have known it wouldn’t last.
Della was unmoved by this declaration. “I don’t understand why you insist on denying yourself any joy in life, but I suppose you’ve decided your reasons are none of my concern, so I’ll try to respect that.” Her mouth was set in a firm line, while her eyes were soft with disappointment. “It seems the strict and proper Lord Ashton has vanquished the fun-loving Lord Ashton. I hope your choice brings you whatever it is you’re looking for.”
It brings me the taste of ash in my mouth and an empty bed each night. Lyman didn’t give voice to the thought. It was the right choice, and that was all that mattered.
“It isn’t about being strict or proper,” Lyman tried to explain. “It’s about maintaining a measure of order in my own life. What you call fun would be disastrous for me.”
Her club, the risk of their affaire being discovered, and now Michael promising to destroy what little remained of his dignity. It was all too much. He worked too hard to regain control over his life. Over himself. It might not look like much to an outsider, but he found some satisfaction in his writing, and in the steady progression of each day that put him farther from the memory of his own mistakes without his having repeated them.
“And what you call order looks a good deal like cowardice to me,” Della replied coolly. “But there’s no point quibbling about it. Tell me, do you intend to cancel our visits?”
Lyman shifted uncomfortably. Whatever his feelings on their romantic entanglement, he didn’t like to abandon her when she might need his help. “I’m still willing to continue our Tuesday calls if you wish, but it will be strictly a business arrangement. Or if you’d rather not see me, you can ask me any questions you might have by correspondence instead.”
“No, you’re perfectly welcome to come by the house as usual,” Della replied. “I may be disappointed, but I’ll get over it soon enough.” Did she really feel so little at their rupture? Lyman wished he could be as impassive. But then, Della probably her choice of admirers, whereas the need for discretion had forced him to be more circumspect. He hadn’t let himself care for a woman this way in some time. “Until next Tuesday, Lord Ashton. Farewell.”
With that, she strode back to her carriage where her brother waited impatiently, without a second glance for Lyman or his misgivings.
***
The next morning, Della rose early, full of resolve to write an entire chapter even if it killed her. She was going to finish the section on shops today.
Signing that contract had made everything seem real, and not just because it was a binding legal document with a lot of unnecessarily obtuse wording that she’d only understood half of.
Besides that, there was Lord Ashton to think of. A few weeks ago, he would’ve been all barbs and scorn to see her out of her depths, but yesterday he’d been so thoughtful about the contract. Kind, even. Della didn’t think she could bear it if she had to tell him she’d failed. Her heart had been pattering his name, right up until he’d cast her aside for some foolish idea of propriety.
What a disappointment.
The worst part was that she knew he was wrong, not only about her, but about himself. Lord Ashton had relished every minute of their too-brief time together. He’d brought her to climax effortlessly. He’d moaned and curled beneath her touch like a man in ecstasy.
Why deny them both such pleasure, unless he was the sort of person who only knew how to be miserable? And if so, why? Della wanted to argue with him until he saw reason, but her pride wouldn’t allow it.
If he didn’t want her, then she didn’t want him. That was the end of it.
Their agreed-upon deadline for a draft manuscript was now only four weeks away, however, and Della would be damned if she let Lord Ashton know she had nothing more to show for her efforts than an outline and some notes on the view from Waterloo Bridge that she couldn’t work into a proper text without a distinct feeling of regret.
Actually, the notes on the view were all she had to show. She’d lost the outline two days ago. Never mind. She remembered what most of it had said, and what she didn’t remember could still be found. It had to be somewhere in her desk, she was sure. Perhaps she should take everything out again? It might have been in that bottom drawer with her petit point…
You’re supposed to focus on writing your chapter today!
She could hunt down the outline later.
If she left straightaway, Della could use the next two hours to take an inventory of all the most fashionable places to spend one’s money; then she would come straight home to write up her findings with no distractions ; and finally she would eat a quick bite and change into evening attire before she went to Bishop’s to supervise the rest of the night. She should have just enough time to manage it all. And once she did, she would set herself another goal for the next chapter, and so forth and so on, until she had an entire book.
She could do this. She only needed to be disciplined.
Della made it exactly as far as the landing when Annabelle found her.
“Where are you off to so early?” she asked, taking in her sister’s burgundy walking dress and matching gloves. “If you’re going to meet Lord Ashton, you have to bring me along.”
“I’m not, so I don’t.” Della tried not to wince at the mention of his name.
“Did Peter scare him off yesterday?”
“Quite the opposite. He invited him to dine with us and attend Mama’s rout the Friday after next, without so much as a by-your-leave from anyone, including Lord Ashton himself.” Della was fuming just thinking of it. Peter hadn’t even checked if she was free! What business did he have trying to steal her friends? Particularly when her relationship with the friend in question was so tenuous. “By the way, how did your tête-à-tête with Miss Greenwood go the other night? I was hurt you left without saying goodbye to me.”
“Because you were embarrassing me,” Annabelle moaned.
“Just as you’ve been embarrassing me with Lord Ashton every week? You reap what you sow, my dear.” Della was not too mature to stick out her tongue at this juncture.
“You were worse,” Annabelle insisted. “ You tried to make me look foolish, whereas I merely enjoy watching you be foolish of your own volition. Anyway, where are you going?”
“To the shops, if you must know. For research for my book, not for buying things.”
“May I come?”
“No.”
“Don’t be mean.” Annabelle’s lower lip was dangerously close to a pout, her eyes imploring. “I want to buy a present for Eliza. She likes all those frilly ribbony trimmings that you wear, which you know I could never select for myself. Anyway, you can hardly go alone. We can help each other.”
Della let out a huge sigh to make it clear what an imposition this was, though she’d secretly decided to relent as soon as Miss Greenwood’s name was mentioned. If their romance had already reached the gift-giving stage, she was going to have to reassess the odds she’d staked on Annabelle’s failure. Things were getting interesting.
“ If I let you come, you must let me set the itinerary and promise not to delay my progress. I’m on a strict schedule.”
“You won’t regret it! Let me just fetch my bonnet and gloves.”
“And I wasn’t going alone,” Della called after her sister’s back as she raced up the stairs. “Reva Chatterjee is meeting me there, and I was planning to invite Jane and Hannah Williams on the way over.”
Twenty minutes later, Della was rolling along in her carriage, lamenting their late start and wondering if she would still be able to visit every place she intended before one o’clock, the time she’d planned to begin writing. Annabelle and Miss Williams sat across from her, gossiping about some girls their age that Della didn’t know. She used to take note of each season’s new round of debutants, but there was simply no time for it these days.
Jane had been napping after a sleepless night when Della had called, and hadn’t joined them.
I don’t understand why anyone should choose to have a baby, if they’re this much work , Della reflected. Of course, she doubted her own mother had ever stayed up with her. They’d had nursemaids for that. Money did seem to make things easier. It was all the more reason to work hard and finish her book soon, so they could bring in more members and Jane could finally rest.
Della left a message with Eli just in case Jane decided to seek them out after she woke up. She’d been dearly hoping to have a real discussion with her friend about everything that had happened these past few weeks.
But it turned out that Miss Williams was an excellent listener, eagerly devouring Della’s stories once they arrived at the first shop, the hatter’s, where they found Reva waiting for them.
“Your life sounds so exciting .” Miss Williams sighed. “How did you get a viscount to help you write a book ? And what’s he like?”
Della hesitated. She’d answered that same question easily when Peter had asked it a few weeks ago: “appallingly condescending.” She blushed to think of it now, after how he’d touched her that night after the casino and then helped her yesterday. He’d been the only one in the room to think of her interests. All her impatience with his cold manner had evaporated after that.
Until he’d left her with nothing but frustrated desire and bruised pride.
“He’s clever and a bit too proper,” she finally replied. “But I don’t think I can tell you much more than that. He’s a difficult man to know.”
“You forgot to mention handsome,” Reva added teasingly.
“I don’t find him handsome at all anymore,” Della said quickly. “Our meetings are strictly a business arrangement.” She was startled to hear Lord Ashton’s own words escape her lips. She’d spoken without thinking, eager to snuff out speculation. Reva must have detected something in her tone, for she raised an eyebrow and dropped the subject.
Miss Williams chatted away, oblivious to their exchange.
“Writing a guidebook to London, running a gambling club—how do you do it all without upsetting your parents?”
“Why should they object?”
“Aren’t they worried it will hurt your reputation and prevent you from marrying?”
“Not really,” Della said lightly. Her parents had never been particularly concerned with finding a match for any of their children. Of course they’d done all the customary things, like presenting Della and later Annabelle at Court for their comings out, but they’d never seemed to care much about what happened after that. It always made Della feel like the odd one out when her friends complained about their meddling parents, even if she was grateful for her freedom. “Mama always says that I’ll know if I’ve met the right man, and I’ve decided he should have a sense of adventure.”
Lord Ashton was sadly lacking in that respect, their interlude in the courtyard notwithstanding. His cold retreat had proven it.
“I wish I had your parents.” Miss Williams seemed a good deal calmer than she had been at their last meeting—no doubt owing to the fact that Della had rescued her from her morning calls—but there was still a strong measure of emotion in her voice as she spoke. “I sometimes think I’d rather die than marry.”
“Hannah!” Annabelle looked up from a selection of hats, shocked. “You mustn’t say such an awful thing.” After a long moment, she added, “Although trapping oneself in bondage to a man does sound perfectly odious, and I encourage you to do everything in your power to avoid it.”
“That isn’t helpful.” Della scowled at Annabelle before turning her attention back to Miss Williams. “Please don’t listen to her. She’s a particular case. Don’t you believe in love? Look how happy Jane and your brother are.”
“They’re happy because he’s utterly devoted to her,” Miss Williams said, “and lets her do whatever she wishes. No one else is half so kind.”
“I used to be nervous at the thought of meeting my future husband,” Reva put in tentatively. “But Mr. Bhattacharya and I turned out to have far more in common than I’d thought.”
“I’m sure we could find you someone—” Della began, but the look on Miss Williams’s face froze her tongue in place. That had evidently been the wrong thing to say.
“ Please don’t.” Miss Williams looked as though she’d swallowed a slug. “If you want to help me, you should find a way to stop my mother from marrying me off. That’s the only outcome I’m interested in.”
“Excellent. We can be old maids together,” Annabelle said happily, holding up a straw bonnet. “Does this one have too much ribbon on it? I think it has too much ribbon.”
“It has precisely the right amount of ribbon,” Della assured her. The blue would bring out Miss Greenwood’s eyes.
“Couldn’t I come to your club tonight?” Miss Williams asked, turning away from Annabelle’s purchase. “I don’t see why everyone should be allowed to attend but me! If I’m old enough to marry, aren’t I old enough to decide how to spend my time?”
Oh dear. Della agreed with her in principle, of course, but she wasn’t foolish enough to get in the middle of a row between Jane’s in-laws.
“You’ll have to talk to Jane about that,” she replied diplomatically.
“So if she agrees, I can attend?”
“Of course.” Though it didn’t seem particularly likely, Della still hoped Jane might permit a bit of harmless rebellion. After all, they’d managed their club in relative secrecy for an entire season without their guardians knowing all of the details until they were ready. It wouldn’t be right to hold Miss Williams to a higher standard. Besides which, she couldn’t get into any trouble with Della there to keep an eye on her. “But don’t be too hard on her if she says no. She’s only trying to keep the peace with your mother, you know.”
Miss Williams only gave a sullen grunt in response to this.
Annabelle purchased the bonnet and left instructions for it to be delivered to Miss Greenwood, then moved on to a glove shop next door, where she selected a pair in the finest kid leather and dispatched it likewise. Goodness, this was to be a full siege of the lady’s defenses! It was nearing two o’clock by the time they left, which bumped Della off the schedule she’d planned. But she couldn’t in good conscience say she’d toured the most important shops in London unless they went to see the new draper’s that had just opened in Cavendish Square, so she was forced to extend their allotted time.
I’ll just have to write quickly once I get home. I can still finish my chapter if I hurry.
They were still admiring the display in the windows when Della heard someone calling her name. A woman on the other side of the street raised a gloved hand and moved to cross. It was Jane! She must have come to find them after her nap. Della extracted herself from the crowd, eager to tell her friend all about her plans for her opening chapter, not to mention the solution she’d found to their problem with Mrs. Muller the other night.
But as she drew near, Della realized it wasn’t Jane at all, but Lady Kerr. At a distance, they looked so alike as to be mistaken.
Cecily Kerr was Jane’s cousin and sometimes rival. When Jane was present, Della would be the first to proclaim that Cecily was utterly self-obsessed and the most taxing person she’d ever encountered. The bonds of friendship commanded some loyalty, after all.
But as Jane was not present, Della was free to acknowledge—at least in the safety of her own thoughts—that she rather liked Cecily. To start with, whenever she came to their club, she always spent her coin liberally, brought several friends, and made sure everyone around her was enjoying their evening. It was almost like having someone there to help them host, if the hostess also happened to be terrible at cards.
She also knew all the latest gossip and could be counted on to share it at the slightest invitation. Della had taken to asking her about the background of their newest members, just to make sure there were no surprises before they allowed a lady to buy a subscription. In short, Cecily was very useful if you knew how to harness her talents properly.
Oh, but this is perfect!
Della was surprised she hadn’t thought of it sooner. If there was any information to be had about Lord Ashton, Cecily was sure to know. All she had to do was ask, and she might finally learn something that would explain his vexing behavior.
“Cecily, how are you?”
“Wonderful, darling. You aren’t shopping there , are you?” Cecily pointed to the draper’s. “They’ll tell you everything is the latest fashion from France but half their stock is just cotton from Nottingham.”
Della made a mental note of this for her book. Cecily was proving useful already!
“I’m so glad to see you,” she began.
There was a flash of surprise in Cecily’s eye before she recovered herself with a laugh. “Of course you are! I’m heaps of fun.”
“Tell me, do you know anything about Viscount Ashton, the author of those guidebooks?”
“Hmm?” Cecily’s brows arched at the name. “Oh yes, I should say everyone knows about him. I bought his book for Sir Thomas on his birthday last year, but I suppose you’re more interested in the man than the book, are you?”
Success!
This was sure to be interesting, but Della held herself back before she could blurt out every question that weighed on her. Things such as: “Why didn’t he want to come to visit my bedroom when I invited him?” and “Have I made a terrible mistake by kissing him?”
One had to tread carefully with Cecily. Gossip could cut both ways.
“A friend of mine offered to introduce us,” Della lied, thinking quickly, “as she knows I have a number of artistic sorts in my set, but I didn’t want to agree to it until I’d asked your opinion. You always know who qualifies as good society and who doesn’t.”
There. That was a passable fib. Although she felt comfortable telling her closest friends about her book, there wouldn’t be much point in publishing it anonymously if she gave Cecily the opportunity to tell the whole world about it. Far safer to cover the more risqué subjects such as the entertainment at Laurent’s Casino from behind a silk screen.
Cecily practically glowed at the praise. “You did quite well to come to me first, for I can assure you he does not qualify. I’d decline the introduction, were I you.”
“Oh?” Della hadn’t been expecting that. She’d thought Cecily would answer with a resounding “yes” and then plunge into a detailed history of Lord Ashton’s entire life for her benefit. Surely no one would refuse the acquaintance of a peer, especially someone as concerned with appearances as Cecily.
Was it because he’d separated from his wife? He was hardly the only man to do so, even if people didn’t tend to speak of such things openly.
“Haven’t you heard about him?” Cecily asked. There was no helping it; Della was on pins and needles. Annabelle had abandoned all interest in some lace she’d been eyeing through the window and wandered closer to listen once she realized whom they were talking about. Reva and Miss Williams weren’t far behind. Cecily seemed to speak even more slowly under the sway of all the attention. “He separated from his wife nine years ago. She was from a very good family. Ellen de Villiers, I believe was her maiden name. The daughter of the Earl of Eastmeath. The two of them used to run in the very best circles until their rupture. And then he ruined her completely; left her destitute. It was all anyone talked about when it happened. All the fuss spoiled my debut year, as you can imagine.”
“How do you mean, he ruined her?” Who on earth cared about Cecily’s debut? She was deliberately saving the juicy details for last. Della’s fingers were twitching with impatience.
“It’s the most horrid thing you can imagine.” Cecily widened her eyes in shock, as if the story were fresh instead of nearly a decade in the past.
What does that mean? Adultery? Cruelty?
Neither of these possibilities sounded like the subdued gentleman who’d bent his head close to hers to share his copy of the contract yesterday.
Cecily cast a wary glance around the circle of ladies hooked on her tale. “I don’t know if I should say it in front of everyone. It might be unpleasant for you to hear, on account of your club.”
“Cecily, please tell me. You have me dying of curiosity.” It was quite true, though hopefully she would ascribe Della’s emotion to her own expert storytelling and not any particular concern for the viscount.
“Very well.” Cecily leaned in, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “He gambled away his family’s entire fortune. The country house, his wife’s dowry, everything . He left the poor woman destitute.”