see Lady Wexin.”
The reporters all pressed forwards, yelling their questions. After Crayden gained entry and the door was closed again, the newspaper men buzzed among themselves for a moment, before turning to look towards Adrian.
Adrian hurried on his way.
Lydia walked to the window of the drawing room and peeked through a gap in the curtain. She thought she’d heard a commotion outside. The newspaper men were still there, all talking about something, but it was not their vile presence that caught her attention, but the figure of a man across the street, looking towards her house.
She’d know Adrian anywhere, even from such a distance, even with his hat shading his face. Had he decided to call upon her again? Even though she’d refused him?
No one called upon her. No one except Lord Levenhorne and he did so merely to check the size of her waistline.
She ought to feel outrage that Adrian would ignore her wishes so blatantly, but instead she felt flushed with excitement. The baby kicked inside her. The baby kicked often now and would be born soon, the physician who attended her said.
She rushed over to the mirror above the fireplace and checked her appearance. Her hair hung undressed in a plait down her back. The gown she wore was an old one Mary had let out so her now larger breasts would not spill over the bodice, and her big tummy would be shrouded by a full skirt. She contemplated changing, but feared nothing else would be ready to wear except nightdresses and robes, and she did not trust herself in such attire around Adrian.
In any event, there was no time, because Dixon entered the room. “There is a Lord Crayden to see you, my lady.”
“What?” She thought she had misheard him.
“Lord Crayden, my lady.” He held out the gentleman’s card.
She stared at it, her spirits plummeting. It was Adrian she wanted to see, wanted to be with even for a little while. She pined to see his eyes filled with concern for her, to feel less alone in his presence.
“But why would this gentleman call upon me?” She handed the card back to Dixon.
She had not even seen Lord Crayden in an age. He had once been a suitor, but never a favoured one. He had no connection to her family or to Wexin’s. He certainly was not a friend. His biggest shortcoming, however, was that he was not Adrian.
“I do not want to see him,” she said.
Dixon bowed. “Very well, my lady.” He turned to leave.
“Wait.” She stopped him. “Do you suppose he has been abroad and brings news of my parents?”
It was the only reason she could think of that the gentleman would call. One letter from her parents, dated months ago, had finally reached her from India, but, from its contents, it was apparent that none of Lydia’s letters had reached them.
“He did not say so, my lady,” Dixon replied.
“Well, send him up, I suppose.”
A few minutes later Crayden was announced.
“Lady Wexin.” He bowed.
She took a step towards him. “Lord Crayden, do you bring me news?”
“News?” He looked puzzled.
“Of my parents? My brother?” She braced herself.
He blinked. “They are abroad, are they not?”
She released a frustrated breath. “You do not bring news of my family? Why are you here?”
He smiled, showing his white, even teeth. “I call merely to inquire after your health—and to offer my condolences.”
She did not believe him. “Condolences? I’ve been a widow for three-quarters of a year.”
His expression turned sympathetic. “I thought it best not to cause comment by calling upon you sooner.”
Such as during the brief time after the Queen had died when the newspapers had left her alone? “So you choose now when I am written of daily, with one man after another connected to my name?”
He gave no indication he perceived her barb. “I thought you might need a friend at this difficult time.”
When Adrian had offered her friendship she had almost believed him. This man she believed not at all.
“Lord Crayden, I knew you only very briefly during my come-out.” And then she’d refused his suit. “It is presumptuous of you to call upon me. Indeed, it makes me very unhappy. You expose me to more gossip I do not deserve.”
A wounded look crossed his face. “My lady, my intentions are honourable, I assure you. I have always had a regard for you, as you well know—”
A regard for her dowry, he must mean.
“I have worried over your welfare and could not wait another moment to assure myself that you were in good health.”
“Be assured, then, Lord Crayden, to what is none of your concern.” Her tone was sharp.
She walked towards the door Dixon had left open. She trusted the butler was nearby.
“I am delighted to know you are well,” Crayden continued, undaunted. “I shall rest easier at night.”
“That is splendid,” she said with great sarcasm, gesturing to the door. “You can have no other business here, then.”
He bowed again. “I shall take my leave of you, my dear lady, but I fear you will not be gone from my thoughts.”
She laughed drily. “I have become quite used to people thinking of me. Good day, sir.”
As he walked past her to the door, he bowed again.
After he left, her biggest regret at his visit was that he’d not been Adrian.
Chapter Ten
All London waits for news of Lady W—. Before midnight calls in the sixteenth day of August, Lady W—must give birth lest the world discover unequivocally that the child is not Lord W—’s progeny. The New Observer assures its readers it will keep a vigil up to the very stroke of midnight. In a Special Edition tomorrow morning, The New Observer will provide the answer. —The New Observer, August 15, 1819
Samuel waited outside the gate of Lady Wexin’s house. The night was warm and the haze that seemed to settle over London in the summer obscured the stars. Candlelight shone from the windows of the houses.
There were only two hours left for Lady Wexin’s chance to give birth to a legitimate, and Samuel had planned this assignation with Mary at this hour to discover whether Lady Wexin would make the time limit or not. The house had been quiet all day.
Through an open window he heard the faint chiming of a clock. Ten o’clock. He peered into the darkness to see if he could spy Mary coming.
