Chapter 2 #3
An understanding, Fred thought, that seemed to be dawning on Harold.
His face had gone pale and his jaw was clenched so tightly it hollowed out his cheeks.
Fred heard the roar of the crowd as if they were standing right behind him, just as Harold said, “I had just turned sixteen when you told me I was exquisite. That I was beautiful.”
The Baroness turned, surprised. “My dear boy—”
“Were you collecting me as well? To keep as your precious plaything?”
It was then that Fred noticed the murmuring he heard in the air wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He turned and found the doorway to the antechamber had at some point been opened and the crowd had gathered by it, rapt faces listening. All eyes on the Baroness.
“I thought they might want more spectacle,” his wife whispered in his ear. “It is fitting, don’t you think, to try her in the court of public opinion?”
“You’re a genius, Jules.”
They’d planned to confront the Baroness in front of the Inspector but his wife was right—there was no harsher tribunal than one’s own peers and no verdict that might slice her deeper than their cut direct.
In front of them, the Baroness laughed out a short, incredulous sound. “Really, Harry. That’s enough. You’re becoming overwrought. This doesn’t concern you.”
“On the contrary,” Harold said. “I think that it does. What you’ve done here is”—the young man shook his head. “The printing of all those awful articles. All of it. It’s monstrous. You’re monstrous.”
“Don’t be dull. You’re too lovely for it.”
Harold, Fred saw, had been holding a flute of champagne in his hands during the entire conversation. It was the movement of it that caught Fred’s attention now, as Harold flung the contents squarely into the Baroness’s face.
He could only stare as the emerald-green of her gown darkened and her carefully arranged hair plastered in wet strands to her cheek. The ballroom behind him gasped.
“Lady Hawthorne,” the Baroness shrieked.
But when she looked around, her long-time abettor had decidedly turned the other cheek. Lady Hawthorne was standing, mouth open in mock incredulity with the rest of the crowd. She lifted no finger to help.
“Baroness,” Lady Hawthorne said, “I am shocked to hear these allegations made against you. You were behind all those terrible articles?”
“She was,” Fred said, even though he was shaking his head at Lady Hawthorne’s performance of innocence. “She just admitted it.”
Of course Lady Hawthorne had known—the sole reason she’d invited him and Jules here was to make them fodder for more gossip, more salacious articles.
But public opinion could be as mercurial as the weather.
Just as easily swinging against you as in any other direction, no matter what had been planned.
And now it was barreling down on the Baroness.
“You can’t prove a thing,” she hissed.
At which point Inspector Hughes also showed himself, and said, “Actually, Baroness, a great many things can be proven given your statements here today.”
It was all as Fred and Julianna had devised. But Jules had been right to open that door. Fred glanced at the crowd craning their necks to hear every word. Losing her readers would put The Quill out of business but being publicly outed would put the Baroness out of Society.
“You there.” The Baroness snapped her attention to the footman by the door. “Come and assist me. This young”—she sneered at Harold—“villain has molested me.”
“Don’t bother,” Harold said loudly, “I can show myself out.”
“Please don’t,” Inspector Hughes said, “until I’ve taken your statement. The Baroness here has said a great deal that is incriminating and I’d like to have your official corroboration before you leave.”
The Baroness stared at him, fury and calculation warring in her eyes. “And you are?”
“Inspector Lucas Hughes, ma’am. Formerly of the Bow Street Magistrate’s Office and lately of the Metropolitan Police Department. You might know us by the name Scotland Yard.”
“A bit out of your jurisdiction then, sir, are you not?” Lord Hawthorne interjected, but Lady Hawthorne quickly quieted her husband.
“Special assignment. Now then, where were we? Ah, right, with the Baroness and her admission of libel. I’ll just take statements then, shall I? Or would you prefer to leave quietly, Baroness, and have this conversation at the constabulary?”
“I will not be ordered about by some—some—” she sputtered, searching for an insult adequate to her rage.
“By someone who can have you arrested?” Hughes supplied. “I do believe you will.”
Every eye was on the Baroness while she finally seemed to absorb the severity of her situation. That this was a social death sentence. That no amount of hubris would get her out of it. And that no one was going to step forward to help.
She gathered herself up with what little remained of her dignity and strode toward the front door, Inspector Hughes on her heels. Fred watched them go, silently.
“Chester and my dear Countess,” Lady Hawthorne said loudly, “how dreadful this evening must have been for you. Why, I just cannot imagine—”
“Are you ready to go now?” Fred asked his wife, completely ignoring whatever mouth noises the dreadful woman was making.
“Quite,” she said and took his offered arm. “After you, my love.”