gestured for him to sit. “What are you drinking, son?”
“Port will do,” Adrian responded.
His father clicked his fingers to a nearby footman. “Port for Lord Cavanley,” he cried in a loud voice.
At least his father had no difficulty using his son’s new title.
The new Lord Varcourt turned back to Adrian. “Are you bound for the card room?”
Adrian’s father relished his son’s success at cards, boasting that Adrian’s winnings would eclipse the family fortune one of these days. An exaggeration, of course, although Adrian did often win.
“Not today,” he replied.
His father beamed and turned to Heronvale and Levenhorne. “It is said my son won a bundle off Sedford the other night.”
Adrian drummed his fingers against the white linen tablecloth. “The cards were good to me.”
The loss must have hurt Sedford, Adrian thought with some guilt, but he guessed Sedford would be in the card room again tonight, drinking just as heavily, losing just as swiftly. Sedford would be better off if he spent more time at his wife’s musicales, even if they were deadly affairs.
“They say Sedford played foolishly.” Levenhorne drained his glass and signalled the footman for another drink. “I’m sick to death of reckless card players and the problems they cause others.”
“I’d heard the man enjoyed cards a great deal more than his skill at them ought to have permitted,” Heronvale said.
Adrian glanced from one to the other. “You have lost me. Do you speak of Sedford?”
“Of Wexin,” his father explained. “We were speaking of Wexin before you arrived. Levenhorne stands to inherit his title, you know.”
Levenhorne rolled his eyes. “Of course, I must wait the blasted ten months to see if Wexin’s widow produces an heir. Ten months during which I could be solving problems that are likely to be mine and will only become worse for the wait.”
Adrian straightened in his chair.
The law gave a peer’s widow ten months to give birth to an heir. As next in line to inherit, Levenhorne had no choice but to wait.
Levenhorne gave a dry laugh. “It is fortunate Wexin died, is it not? Things would be in even more of a mess if he’d been hanged for treason.”
Seizure of the title, forfeiture of the property—all would have been possible had Wexin been convicted and hanged. It was complicated, indeed, but Levenhorne could not know how truly complicated. Tanner had confided to Adrian that Wexin shot himself, but Tanner had convinced the Scottish officials to declare Wexin’s death accidental. “To minimise the scandal and ease Lady Wexin’s suffering,” Tanner had explained. It also vastly simplified the settling of Wexin’s estate.
“Ah, the drinks have arrived.” Levenhorne looked towards the footman who approached the table carrying a tray. He grabbed his glass, shaking his head. “Wexin’s debts are staggering. The man owes money all over town.” He took a fortifying drink. “Or I should say, owed money. He was damned reckless in his spending. Or perhaps it was Lady Wexin who spent like an empress. The trustee has clamped down on her, I tell you.”
“Indeed?” Adrian’s interest increased.
Levenhorne shrugged. “Her father will pay her debts, I suspect, although he will be none too pleased when he discovers the townhouse he purchased as a wedding gift is now mortgaged to the hilt.”
Adrian’s father spoke up. “I heard Strathfield was on a tour. His son as well. Headed to Egypt and India.”
Strathfield was Lydia’s father and as wealthy as any man could wish.
“True.” Levenhorne waved a dismissive hand. “Let her depend on her sister, then.” Lydia’s sister had married quite well. “I’ll be damned if I’ll use my own funds.”
Adrian frowned.
Heronvale broke in. “Her sister’s husband has refused any contact, my wife tells me.” He sipped his drink. “In my opinion Lady Wexin deserves our pity, not our castigation. The newspapers are brutal to her.”
Adrian’s father grinned. “Did you see the caricature in the window at Ackermann’s? It shows her and Wexin standing with a clergyman while Wexin hides a long, bloody knife. One had to laugh at it.”
Adrian failed to see the humour. He tapped on his glass. “Tanner told me Lady Wexin knew nothing about Wexin killing Corland. In fact, Tanner told me that Wexin’s motive was to have been kept confidential.”
Tanner had been on the run with the woman fugitive whom Wexin had framed for Viscount Corland’s murder. The newspapers called her the Vanishing Viscountess and, at the time, her name filled the papers like Lydia’s did now. Tanner had married her in Scotland, and she and Tanner were the ones who had exposed Wexin.
“Who divulged that he’d killed Corland before the man could ruin his chance to marry her, I wonder?” Heronvale frowned. “Someone present at the inquest, I suppose.”
Adrian’s father laughed. “Come now. Who could resist? Tanner is a fool to think such delicious gossip can be silenced.”
Heronvale looked at Adrian. “Tanner is certain of her innocence?”
Adrian bristled at the question. “He assures me she had nothing to do with her husband’s crimes.”
Levenhorne lifted his glass to his lips. “I am not so certain. The papers speculate she knew what Wexin was about.”
Adrian gripped the edge of the table, angry at this man’s insistence on believing the worst of Lydia. Had he not heard Adrian say that Tanner had proclaimed her innocence? Did they believe a newspaper over a marquess?
Another worry nagged at him, one that explained the unlit fire and the absence of servants, if not the purse full of coin.
“How severe was Wexin’s debt?” Adrian asked Levenhorne.
Levenhorne leaned back in his chair. “He was in dun territory, both feet in the River Tick. The whole matter of his estate is a shambles. The executor is Lady Wexin’s brother, who is on that bloody tour of Egypt or wherever.” He shook his head in disgust. “Mr Coutts, the banker, you know, is the trustee. He had the audacity to ask me for funds, which I refused, I tell you.”
Adrian glanced away. Poor Lydia! Adrian could not simply walk away from her difficulties without assisting her, could he?
Lydia sat up in the bed where only two hours before she’d made love with a man she barely knew, one of London’s most profligate rakes. She wrapped her arms around herself, remembering the passion of his lovemaking, the delightful pleasures he had given her. His reputation as a lover was deserved, well deserved.
She blushed. Her life was a shambles, a mockery, a laughing stock. She was a widow who could not grieve, a lady who could not pay her debts, a daughter who could not run to her parents. Only God knew where her parents or brother might be. Greece. Egypt. India. She’d written to all the places on their itinerary. Her
