Epilogue
WHISPERS OF THE TON
Heroes in Gowns
Dearest Reader,
‘It seems The Whispers of the Ton has made the betting books of Whites once more as to which lady of the ton will be exposed next within our pages. Contrary to the gentlemen’s beliefs, we do not condemn the bold spirits of women who aren’t afraid to seize a happily ever after.
That particular ending for a woman in our society is a rare gift.
Indeed, most of our female readers are subjected to the unwanted, unappreciated, and despicable attentions of the very men who placed bets.
The men who judge them for working or surviving horrendous attacks, have too much power over their lives and deaths.
The moral turpitude of those men will be exposed.
So, gentlemen of the ton, line up and place your bets as to which of you will grace our pages next.
As for the lady we celebrated within our recent reports, we have it on good authority the new Countess A, is a true heroine.
With the assistance of several young misses (we will not mention by name for fear of negative societal judgements they do not deserve), she is responsible for the arrests of numerous men in the East End who have been kidnapping young women of every societal rank for over a decade.
It is also said Countess A not only protected her family and servants from the villains who entered her home uninvited; she dispatched several to Pluto for judgement of their corrupt souls.
To the gentlemen who participated in this dastardly scandal who have not been identified, fear the mighty pen that will expose your use and abuse.
There will be no ransom demand from us. Nor will there be mercy for the families who refused to allow their sisters and daughters to return home because they were somehow deemed less worthy after being victimized.
While some gentlemen may be quaking in their boots, our illustrious Sir W, who lent a helping hand in the rescue of thirteen young ladies, was observed enjoying a glass of port and a cigar while taking his bath after a long hard night.
How much more enticing can the man be? Rumor has it, his investigation continues.
Whether Sir W is a protector of the innocent, or a deceiver for the powerful, remains to be seen.
We shall celebrate the hero for now and expose his best side.
If there turns out to be another side deserving further inspection, you shall be the first we tell.
—The Whispers of the Ton publication one month after the warehouse raid.
Within the pages of the paper was a graphic etching of Sir Williamson in his copper tub taking a bath while enjoying a glass of port and a cigar.
His long legs were crossed at the ankles and stretched out over the rim of the tub as he leaned back in repose.
The etching caused much laughter among those in the ton.
Sir Williamson read the article and seethed.
“Are you suggesting,” Robbi asked, “that a woman cannot be as good a spy as a man, Mr. Payne?”
Ailsa rolled her eyes. The poor man had stepped in it as soon as they walked out of the house to take the children to the park. Robbi was going to eat him alive. Ailsa wasn’t sure who was more taxing to be around, the two of them, or the three younger children.
“Robbi, stop vexing the poor man and help me get our naughty nieces and nephew under control before they find another bit of trouble they don’t need.”
“Might I have a word, Miss Blair?”
All three of them startled, including Mr. Payne, when a man stepped from the shadows and took hold of her arm as if he had a right to put his hands upon her person.
She looked up…and up and immediately knew the identity of her attacker by his mere size alone, despite his face being obscured from view by his hat.
“Sir Williamson, I would kindly ask that you unhand me as I have children to attend to.”
“Mr. Payne and your sister will handle the children.” He nodded at her sister and Mr. Payne, and they scurried off like obedient little dogs.
“What just happened?” She asked.
“I got rid of prying ears and eyes.”
“We’re on a public street in the middle of summer. There are eyes and ears observing everything about us. Besides which, you’re as big as a horse, and since you’re the only horse-sized creature walking on the sidewalk, you tend to attract every eye on the block.”
As if to prove her point, two young boys pointed out the window at him from their library window across the street. She raised her brows as if to say, See? I told you.
“Smugness, doesn’t become a lady.”
“I’m not a lady. I’m a mere Miss.”
“A naughty miss, at that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you aware of the trouble your sister, Robbi, is getting into?”
“If you’re referring to her sneaking out at night, that would only be a secret to Ross. He believes she’s learned the dangers that go bump in the night.”
“What about the dangers of having her art published in The Whispers of the Ton.”
She did everything she could to not react. “I don’t understand.” She lied.
“Don’t play coy, Miss Blair. It doesn’t become you.”
“Be that as it may, you’ll have to explain exactly what you’re accusing her of doing.”
Sir Williamson pulled her toward the narrow passage located between the Smythe and Johnson townhomes.
She dug her heels in, but he merely picked her up and towered over her as she pressed back against the brick wall.
She’d only read about his type of intimidation in books.
She gulped as he brought his face mere inches from her own.
“I’m talking about the etching of me in my bath that was printed in Whispers of the Ton this morning.” His jaw clenched to contain the anger radiating from every inch of his massive body.
“I’m still not certain what you are referring to. I haven’t read that sheet in days.”
He slapped a paper against her midsection, and she nearly gasped. “I took this one from your library, where I watched the two of you giggling over the content this very morning.”
She had the grace to look embarrassed after being caught in a lie. “Oh, that one.”
“Yes, that one. What do you think the paper will say when I tell them Robina Blair is the artist sketching gentlemen of the ton in their altogether?”
She lifted her chin. “She did no such thing.”
“I can prove it.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Then prove it.”
He mimicked her stance and then leaned forward once more. “I was there when she dropped it off at the paper two nights ago.”
She scoffed. “If that was the case, why didn’t you stop the printing?”
He clenched his jaw, his mouth puckering in a way that drew her eyes down to where his bottom lip dominated his top lip in the most fascinating manner.
“Stop that.”
Her eyes flew to his. “Stop what?”
He blew out an exasperated breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a distinct button to hold in front of her face, and her stomach dropped. “Oh, Robbi.”
“I can see by your expression that you know exactly what this is.”
She shook her head in denial. “I have no idea.”
He grabbed her arm and began dragging her to the entrance of the alley. “Then let’s go match this button to the jacket she wears when she roams the streets at night, shall we?”
“Wait. Wait!” She demanded when he refused to slow down.
He turned on her; scowling in her face once more. “Are you ready to tell the truth?”
“I recognize it as being a button from a boy’s jacket, but I’m almost certain there are many, many jackets with similar buttons on them used by countless boys across London. Countless delivery boys who show up at the paper every day to sell papers for The Whispers of the Ton.”
“I found this…” he held it up directly in front of her eyes, “…in my bathing room.”
She remained silent.
“Now, do I need to show you where her jacket is missing a button?”
She shook her head.
“Then. I suppose it’s time for me to identify little Miss Robina to The Whispers of the Ton for the scandalous sister that she is.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“I would. She drew me in the nude.”
“You can’t do that. It will ruin her.”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t ruin her?” He demanded, his tone full of self-righteous affront.
She looked down at the ground between them and said in a whisper, “Because it was me, not Robbi.”
“I’m sorry.” He tilted his head. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”
Steeling her mettle, she glared up at the largest man she’d ever seen in her life. “I said, because it was me. I was the one spying on you in your bath. I’m the one who drew the picture.”
He stood up to his full height, a slow satisfied grin spreading across his face. “I knew it.”
“What do you mean, you knew it?”
“I mean, I knew it. I found a strand of your hair on my rug.”
She snorted. “That could be one of your maid’s hairs or your mistress’s hair.”
His ridiculously handsome face was still smug with male superiority. “I don’t have a mistress, and I don’t know a woman alive with hair the color of yours.”
She would not acknowledge the leap of her stupid heart upon hearing his confession of not keeping a mistress.
She had no doubt it was a temporary status.
Besides, she had more pressing matters to worry about than his current lover.
“Fine. I told you it was me. What will it take for you to not ruin me?”
The spy returned, all business, with a touch of arrogant pride. “You’re going to work for me.”
“I think you just proved I am not cut out to be a spy.”
“As an artist,” he qualified.
“I draw the line at doing lascivious art for men to gawk at.”
He laughed dryly. “You draw naked men for the entire world to ogle.”
“London is hardly the entire world, and you were the only nude model.”
“A model agrees to being the subject of a piece of art. I did not. That is why I’m calling in the debt you owe me. I need an artist to draw images of suspects who victims describe. I want to distribute those images to identify criminals and put them behind bars.”
She looked at him skeptically. “I’m not that good of an artist.”