He seized her arm. “Lydia, calm yourself. They will not see me.”
It was not only the reporters or creditors fuelling her alarm. Her own wanton behaviour had shocked her much, much more.
She shoved the shirt and waistcoat into his hands.
He dressed as quickly and efficiently as he had undressed. Buttoning his waistcoat, he said, “I will call upon you tomorrow.”
“No!” she cried. She forced herself to sound rational. “You cannot come here again, Adrian. If you are seen here, there will be more scandal.” She hopped over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a robe of Chinese silk. She wrapped the robe around her. “Please, just go.”
He strode over and enfolded her in his arms, pressing her ear against his beating heart. “Be calm,” he murmured. “Your troubles will vanish soon.”
She wanted to laugh hysterically. Once she had believed that troubles were what other people experienced, but she knew differently now. Now it seemed trouble would follow her to the end of her days.
“I’ll lock your gate and throw the key back into the garden.” He released her, but placed one light kiss on her forehead. “And I will return.”
“You must not return,” she pleaded.
He flashed a smile before walking out of the bedchamber.
She hobbled to a room at the back and peered into the garden, telling herself she just wanted to be certain he left by the rear of the house. She could never allow him to call upon her, but she could gain one last glimpse.
He, no more than a shadow now, appeared in the garden and crossed to the back gate with a long-legged stride. When he reached it he turned back towards the house and lifted his face to the upper windows. With a gasp, Lydia jumped back, although she doubted he could have seen her. Slowly he turned back to the gate, opened it a crack, and peeked out before walking through, out of her sight.
Out of her life.
Chapter Two
What magic allure does the Lady possess, to turn a man to such desperate acts? Who will her next victim be, this Siren, this daughter of Achelous, who sings men to their deaths?—The New Observer, November 12, 1818
Adrian entered White’s gentlemen’s club, his senses still humming, the lovemaking with Lydia still vibrating through him so powerfully he wondered if others could sense it.
He felt strong and masculine and completely devoid of the amorphous discontent with which he’d been lately plagued. It had vanished when he had walked into Lady Wexin’s life. Adrian fought the impulse to turn around and retrace his steps to John Street, to scale the walls of her garden if necessary, to enter her house, and repeat the lovemaking that had stirred his senses to such heights.
The footman stationed at the door of White’s greeted Adrian with undisputed normality, chatting about the weather while assisting Adrian out of his coat. Adrian glanced over to the bow window, but no one sat there. He made his way through the club to the coffee room.
Several men nodded a greeting, and Adrian had to suppress a smile. They had no idea that he’d just left the bed of one of London’s most beautiful, and now most notorious, women. And they would never know of it.
A voice called from across the room, “Cavanley! Over here. Join us.”
Adrian glanced around, expecting to see someone summoning his father, but it was his father who was waving to him from a table in the corner of the room. Adrian rubbed his face in dismay. He, not his father, was Cavanley now.
Since Adrian’s father had inherited the title Earl of Varcourt from a distant and elderly cousin who had very recently passed away, Adrian now had the use, by courtesy, of his father’s lesser title of Viscount Cavanley. Inheriting his father’s titles with all their rights, responsibility, and property would only occur upon his father’s death. At present, he merely gained the privilege of being called Viscount Cavanley. Adjusting to the new appellation was more difficult than he’d anticipated.
The new Earl of Varcourt waved with more vigour, signalling Adrian to join him. His father sat with the Marquess of Heronvale and Heronvale’s brother-in-law, Lord Levenhorne.
Adrian crossed the room and greeted them. “Good evening to you.” He bowed to each in turn. “Lord Heronvale. Lord Levenhorne. Father.”
His father 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