Chapter Four
Evelyn tied a ribbon into her brown hair, winding it carefully into a neat bun and pinning it in place as she did every morning.
The actions were so habitual she scarcely needed to think of them.
Her thoughts were elsewhere—lost in imaginings of the man upon whom she had tumbled the previous day.
Heat pooled through her, sweet and forbidden, as she recalled how it had felt to lie in his powerful arms, her cheek pressed against his solid chest. His strong, muscled frame had been firm and exciting beneath her, his handsome face charming her instantly.
She pushed back her chair and stood up, annoyed with herself.
“There is a great deal of work to be done today,” she reminded herself firmly, cheeks burning with delicious shame as she thrust the thoughts aside.
She crossed to the window and drew open the curtains.
Below, the street lay misty and grey, only a few early pedestrians braving the chill.
It was half-past seven; the sun had risen more than an hour earlier.
She glanced about her chamber, her gaze falling upon the well-worn novel by her bedside.
It was too familiar to distract her. She regretted mislaying the Shakespeare volume, yet reminded herself she had precious little time for reading in any case.
With a steadying breath, she made her way down the hallway to the breakfast room, her mind fixed upon the difficult problem of James’s debts.
James had given her very little with which to work. Whomever the creditor was, the nature of his threats made it clear he was not a man inclined toward negotiation. Any such hope was futile.
She poured herself tea and reached for a slice of toast, her stomach growling. Last night’s meagre dinner had hardly satisfied her, and she was ravenous. Bread remained one of the few things they could still afford in abundance, and she intended to enjoy it.
As she bit into a slice of hot, buttered toast spread with her favourite marmalade, her gaze wandered the room.
The blue-patterned chintz curtains had been drawn back to reveal the grey morning.
A fire burned brightly—a mercy for which she was grateful.
Their fare might be plain, but they could still afford coal, and could still pay the three servants who loyally remained.
The furniture—the old round breakfast table, the wooden chairs, the chintz-covered armchair by the fire, the sideboard—was simple but serviceable.
She reached for another slice of toast, sipped her tea, and set the cup into its saucer. As she reached for the butter knife, her eye caught the stack of papers beside the hearth. One headline bore the name ‘Caldwell.’
Her surname.
Her brows knit. Had some distant cousin disgraced himself in town? Curiosity pricked sharply. She fetched the papers and carried them back to the table.
Her stomach dropped. The sheet bearing her name was not a newspaper but a scandal sheet—worse, one featuring her.
“Miss Caldwell in Compromising Act”.
Her heart lurched as she read. Each line seemed worse than the last. Someone in the crowd at the milliner’s had identified her, and the tale had spread—embroidered, suggestive, damning.
A young woman of apparently lax standards, willing to throw herself—quite literally—into the arms of a wealthy gentleman in order to secure his interest.
“No…” she whispered. Part of her wanted to thrust the sheet into the fire and pretend she had never seen it. Another part sat frozen in disbelief. It could not be real. Yet she knew all too well that it was.
The damage was real and impossible to ignore. Anyone reading it would form the worst possible opinion of her—and in London society, opinion was everything. Without her reputation, she had nothing.
No protection, either, she thought with a shudder. If men believed her capable of such behaviour, she would be seen as fair game for exploitation—utterly unsafe.
“Oh, what am I to do?” she breathed, a tear escaping despite her efforts at composure.
Fear vibrated through her. She would have to flee London altogether.
But then—James, Mama—she could not abandon them.
Most young ladies would have been sent away by their families after such a scandal; she could not even rely on that. They needed her.
Her throat tightened. She pressed her hand to her mouth to stop a sob. A soft knock sounded at the door, unnoticed at first. Only when the knock came again did she look up.
“What is it?” she called hoarsely.
“Miss Caldwell?” came Mr Soames’s voice. “Miss Harwick is here to call on you. Shall I show her in?”
“Please,” Evelyn said at once, rising swiftly.
Before she reached the door, Lucy entered. Her expression was stricken.
“I saw the scandal sheets,” she whispered. “I am so very sorry.”
She opened her arms, and Evelyn fell into them, drawing comfort from her dear friend’s embrace and the soft scent of her rose perfume.
“I don’t know what to do,” Evelyn murmured, struggling to steady her voice. She motioned Lucy to the table, for speaking was suddenly too difficult. Lucy sat and clasped her hand tightly.
“It will be well,” Lucy said softly, meeting her gaze. “They do not say you—well—did anything. They cannot. They even admit the wind might have pushed you into him.”
“Yes,” Evelyn acknowledged. The article had conceded that interpretation—but chose to emphasise the other. “But what will people say?”
“Sensible people will not believe this drivel,” Lucy said stoutly. “Though I suppose the two of us have just read it.” She attempted a weak smile, though fear flickered in her eyes. “I truly think most will dismiss it.”
“It does not feel that way,” Evelyn whispered, though her friend’s words brought a flash of relief.
Not everyone read the scandal sheets. Fewer still put stock in them.
Some people—mostly men—appeared in them weekly without suffering any lasting harm, largely because they refused to let gossip dictate their bearing.
I could never do that, Evelyn thought. Even imagining it filled her with the urge to flee.
“People do not always choose to believe the worst,” Lucy insisted. “Many will ignore it. And I shall silence the gossip wherever I hear it. I was there—I know your courage, your kindness—” Her voice broke, tears slipping down her cheeks. “It isn’t fair. You only tried to help. And that man—”
“It was not his fault,” Evelyn said quickly, though she scarcely knew why she felt compelled to defend him. “He cannot be blamed for how people chose to interpret what they saw.”
“Nor can you,” Lucy replied fiercely.
“True,” Evelyn whispered, swallowing. A terrible thought struck her. “What if Mama sees it? She must not. It would destroy her.”
“We shall make certain she does not,” Lucy said at once, rising with sudden purpose. She went to the fireplace. “Tell her the paper was not delivered. Give it to me—I shall burn it.”
She held out her hand for the scandal sheet.
“She might hear of it,” Evelyn began unsurely, but even as she spoke, she realised that it was unlikely. Mama hardly ever ventured beyond the front door. If no one in the house knew, then there would be no one to tell her.
“Let us burn it quickly,” Lucy urged gently. “Before someone happens upon it.”
Evelyn passed the sheet to her, and Lucy tossed it into the fire.
The smell of singeing ink made them cough—and then giggle.
It changed nothing in truth, yet the act felt oddly empowering, as though they had taken back at least one small measure of control.
Evelyn felt a little steadier, a little less afraid.
They returned to the table. Evelyn traced the grain of the polished wood with her fingertip, focusing on anything other than the terror tightening her chest. The danger was real.
Without her reputation, she had no protection, no social standing—nothing with which to shield herself from those who might take advantage.
“If we—” Lucy began, but a knock at the door cut her off.
“Who is it?” Evelyn called, dread creeping up her spine. If it was her mother or James, she did not know how she could possibly keep her distress from showing.
“Miss Caldwell?” came Mr Soames’s voice.
“Yes?” Evelyn replied, heart pounding. She glanced instinctively toward the fire, though the sheet was already gone.
“Lady Evandale is here, my lady. Shall I show her in?”
“What?” Evelyn breathed, startled. “Yes—yes, please. And bring an extra tea setting, if you would.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Evelyn turned to Lucy in astonishment. The Countess of Evandale was one of the few members of the ton who had remained steadfastly kind to their family after her father’s death and their subsequent loss of fortune.
She always called when she was in London for the Season—usually arriving with her son, the Earl of Evandale, for the Opening of Parliament.
“Why would Lady Evandale come at this hour?” Evelyn murmured.
Lucy shook her head. “I cannot imagine.”
The butler returned and opened the door.
“The Countess of Evandale.”
A tall, gracious woman entered, her white curls neatly arranged, her blue silk day-dress gleaming softly in the morning light. At the sight of Evelyn, she moved forward at once, taking both her hands.
“My dear child—how do you fare? I have seen the papers. I am so very sorry. Something must be done.”
Her gentle face was creased with concern. Evelyn’s eyes dropped; the kindness nearly undid her.
“I… I…” she managed, unable to form words.
“Will you take breakfast with us?” Lucy offered quickly, rescuing her.
“Oh, thank you, my dear, but I have already eaten.” Lady Evandale gave her a warm smile. “Come—let us sit. We must discuss what is to be done.”