of value, Adrian thought. “The enjoyment is lacking at the moment.”
“Lacking? Impossible.” His father clapped him on the shoulder. “You sound like a man in need of a new mistress.”
Again Adrian thought of Lydia.
“Find yourself a new woman,” his father advised. “That’s the ticket. That Denson woman, if she wants it.”
Typical of his father to think in that manner. His father had inherited young, married young and lived a life of exemplary conduct, but that did not stop him from enjoying the exploits of his son.
“Do not forget,” his father went on, “your friend Tanner’s marriage has deprived you of some companionship, but you’ll soon accustom yourself to going about without him.” His father laughed. “Imagine Tanner in a Scottish marriage. With the Vanishing Viscountess, no less. Just like him to enter into some ramshackle liaison and wind up smelling of roses.”
Indeed. Under the most unlikely of circumstances Tanner had met the perfect woman for him. Why, his wife was even a baroness in her own right, a very proper wife for a marquess.
Adrian’s father launched into a repeat of the whole story of Tanner’s meeting the Vanishing Viscountess, of aiding her flight and of them both thwarting Wexin. Adrian only half-listened.
Adrian glanced at his father. The man was as tall, straight-backed and clear-eyed as he’d been all Adrian’s life. Even his blond hair was only lately fading to white. He did not need Adrian’s help managing the properties or anything else.
Adrian was nearly seven and thirty years. How long would it be before he had any responsibility at all?
“Did you know Wexin’s townhouse is on Hill Street?” he suddenly heard his father say.
“Mmm,” Adrian managed. Of course he knew.
“Strathfield purchased it as a wedding gift. Nice property. There’s been a pack of newspaper folks hanging around the door for days now. I agree with Levenhorne. Those newspaper fellows know a thing or two about Lady Wexin that we do not.”
Adrian bristled. “Tanner says—”
His father scoffed. “Yes. Yes. Tanner says she is innocent, but when you have lived as long as I have, son, you learn that where one sees smoke, there is usually fire.”
There was certainly a fire within Lady Wexin, but not the sort to which his father referred.
They reached Berkeley Square. His father stopped him before the door of the Varcourt house. “When your mother gives the word, you must give up your rooms and take over the old townhouse. She is still dithering about what furniture to move, I believe, so I do not know how long it will take.”
Splendid. Adrian had wanted an estate to manage. He would wind up with a house instead.
Samuel Reed stood among three other reporters near the entrance of Lady Wexin’s townhouse. His feet pained him, he was hungry, chilled to the bone and tired of this useless vigil. The lady was not going to emerge.
“I say we take turns,” one of the men was saying. “We agree to share any information about who enters the house or where she goes if she ventures out.”
“You talk a good game,” another responded. “But how do we know you would keep your word? You’d be the last fellow to tell what you know.”
The man was wrong. Reed would be the last fellow to tell what he knew. He was determined that The New Observer, the newspaper he and his brother Phillip owned, would have exclusive information about Lady Wexin. He’d not said a word to the others that he’d caught the lady out and about. She’d been walking from the direction of the shops. Why had she gone off alone?
He glanced at the house, but there was nothing to see. Curtains covered the windows. “I’m done for today,” he told the others.
“Don’t expect us to tell you if something happens,” one called to him.
Reed walked down John Street, slowing his pace as he passed the garden entrance. He peered through a crack between the planks of the wooden gate.
To his surprise, the rear door opened, though it was not Lady Wexin who emerged but her maid, shaking out table linen.
Reed’s stomach growled. It appeared that Lady Wexin had enjoyed a dinner. He certainly had not. He watched the maid, a very pretty little thing with dark auburn hair peeking out from beneath her cap. Reed had seen the young woman before, had even followed her the previous day when she’d gone to the market. For the last several days, Reed had seen only this maid and the butler entering and leaving the house. He’d surmised that Lady Wexin had dismissed most of the servants.
He’d been able to locate one of Lady Wexin’s former footmen, but the man refused to confirm whether or not other servants had left her employment. The man had refused to say anything newsworthy about Lady Wexin, but perhaps a maid might have knowledge a footman would not.
He watched her fold the cloth and re-enter the house. A carriage sounded at the end of the street, and he quickly darted into the shadows until the carriage continued past him.
He glanced at the moonlit sky. Time to walk back to the newspaper offices, get some dinner and write his story for the next edition, such as it was.
If only he could identify the gentleman who had come to Lady Wexin’s aid. He could make something of that information. The man was familiar, but he did not know all the gentlemen of the ton by sight. He’d keep his eyes open, though, and hope to discover the man’s identity soon enough.
Chapter Three
The scandalous Lady W—walks about Mayfair without a companion…or was it her intention to rendezvous with a certain gentleman? Beware, fine sir. Recall to what ends a man may be driven when Beauty is the prize…—The New Observer, November 14, 1818
Sheets of relentless rain kept indoors all but the unfortunate few whose livelihood forced them outside. Adrian was not in this category, but he willingly chose to venture forth with the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, the damp soaking its way through his topcoat and water seeping into his boots.
He turned into Hill Street, watchful for the reporters who’d lounged around Lady Wexin’s door the previous day when he’d made it a point to stroll by. As he suspected and dared hope, no one was in sight.
To be certain, he continued past the house to the end of the street and then back again. Not another living creature was about.
Apparently there were some things a newspaper reporter would not do in pursuit of a story, like standing in the pouring rain in near freezing temperatures. Adrian was not so faint of heart. What was a little water dripping from the brim of his hat, soaking his collar and causing his neck to chafe? A mere annoyance when he might see Lydia again.
Still, he wished he might have brought his umbrella.
Adrian strode up to the green door of the Wexin townhouse and sounded the brass lion’s-head knocker.
No one answered.
He sounded the knocker again and
