The number was sufficient to ensure her comfort.
He leaned back against the padded upholstery, trying to feel some satisfaction in having helped her.
The coach lurched forwards, the unexpected motion causing both father and son to grip the seats.
His father frowned. “I do hope the springs in this carriage are up to a trip of this length. I do not relish being jostled about.”
This was Adrian’s first ride in the elegant carriage bearing the Earl of Varcourt’s crest. “It is a damned sight better than the last hack I rode in.”
His father huffed. “Why you ride in those things is a mystery to me. Our old coach is at your disposal any time you require it.”
“That is generous of you, sir.” Adrian’s father was always generous.
This carriage did have a tendency to sway to and fro in a manner as lulling as a ship in gentle waters. After leaving the busy streets of London, they lapsed into silence. His father dozed and Adrian lost himself in thoughts that seemed as unfocussed as his life. The day promised to be long and tedious, but it was their duty to be present at the Queen’s funeral.
“When duty calls, a gentleman must always rise to do what is required of him,” his father always said. And always added, “So enjoy life while you can, my son.”
His father would deny it, but Adrian knew he relished doing his duty in whatever form it took, and probably had enjoyed it even from his youth, when he inherited the family title. Adrian’s father was a man who could be counted upon to do what must be done, but he also tended to glorify what he’d missed, the chance to be a frivolous, pleasure-seeking youth. His father could not fathom how such trivialities could grow tiresome over time.
When they reached Kew Palace there was a jumble of carriages, cavalry and foot soldiers, royal grooms and pages. Also in attendance were the royal physicians and countless other members of the royal entourage. Somehow this multitude sorted itself into a dignified and orderly procession, moving solemnly towards Windsor and St George’s Chapel.
The procession kept its snail-like pace the whole distance, reaching Houslow Heath shortly after noon and the chapel at seven in the evening. By that time most of the London carriages had turned off, making their way back to town. It was appalling how few peers actually endured the day long enough to attend the Queen’s funeral service.
Adrian and his father endured it, as duty demanded. By the time their coach was again pointed in the direction of London, his father’s energy had flagged and his rhythmic snores joined with the sound of the horses’ hooves and the creaking of the coach’s springs.
Adrian stared at the darkness outside, alone again with his thoughts.
What was there to look forward to in the weeks ahead? Within days London would empty, the ton fleeing to country houses or the Continent, places where they might find entertainment. With the official mourning of the Queen, the London entertainments would disappear. The theatres were already dark, and no one had hosted a ball or dinner or rout since the mourning commenced.
Adrian supposed he could accept his mother’s invitation to spend Christmas at the Varcourt estate. No doubt several of his parents’ friends would be in attendance. There would be card playing at night and perhaps he could ride in the mornings. There would be plenty of land to give his horse a good run.
Tanner had invited him to Tannerton, as well, but Adrian had already begged off. He knew Tanner would prefer to be alone with his new wife.
Perhaps he should travel somewhere, somewhere like…Paris.
Yes. Paris would be a novelty. Things were a bit gayer there now than they had been right after the war, he’d heard. More money was pouring in to the city each day. There were plenty of casinos he might visit, as well as the various sites of interest in the city.
Yes, he made the decision. He would go to Paris.
Anywhere to battle this cursed ennui.
Chapter Seven
The notorious Lady W—has gone back into hiding, no longer venturing to visit the shops on Piccadilly or to take walks in Hyde Park. All of London wishes to know why. Could she perhaps be in an interesting condition?—The New Observer, April 11, 1819
Adrian sat in the dining room at the townhouse on Curzon Street. While he’d been in Paris, his father had written to him that the Pomroy house would be ready for him on his return. Adrian made arrangements for his belongings to be moved from his rooms near St James’s Square, and wrote to tell the servants at the townhouse when to expect him. He’d entered the house he’d known as a child, just the day before this one. It continued to be a curious combination of familiar and strange. Adrian had slept in the room and on the bed he’d always known as his father’s and was now seated at the head of the long dining-room table in what seemed like his father’s chair.
His family’s butler, a man hired by his father years ago, entered the room. “The newspapers, my lord.” The butler even addressed Adrian in the same tone he’d always addressed Adrian’s father.
“Thank you, Bilson.” Adrian tried at least to sound like himself. He returned his coffee cup to its saucer and took the papers in hand.
He supposed he ought to send an announcement to the papers telling of his return. In fact, Bilson could see that it was done—one of the benefits of having more servants. He had even less to do.
The New Observer happened to be the newspaper on top. Adrian rolled his eyes. Bilson could forgo the subscription to the scandal sheet that had so maligned Lydia.
Adrian took a deep breath and dug his fork into a slice of cold beef. It made no sense to think of Lydia. He’d done an excellent job of forgetting her in Paris. Several high stakes’ card games had taken his mind away.
Until he won, that is, and remembered he was replacing funds he had given to her. He had also met a few very pretty French mademoiselles, but he could not sustain an interest in them. He attributed this to his general malaise, not to comparing them to Lydia.
Adrian shook his head and skimmed The New Observer, its columns full of gruesome murders and titillating affairs.
His gaze caught on the words the notorious Lady W—. Damned paper. What were they saying of her now?
He read on.…All of London wishes to know…Could she perhaps be in an interesting condition?
Adrian sprang to his feet, toppling the mahogany chair onto the carpet. “What the deuce is this?”
Bilson stepped in. “Is anything amiss, my lord?”
Newspaper still in hand, Adrian strode towards him. “My hat and gloves, Bilson, and be quick. I’m going out.”
Bilson lost no time in retrieving the hat and gloves, and Adrian was on the street in less than a minute. He set a quick pace in the direction of Hill Street and Lydia’s house, an easy walk away.
When he reached the street he saw several men clustered around.
Newspaper reporters.
He had half a mind to
