“Which one?” Phillip asked him.
“Is there more than one? Oh, dear.” His eyelids fluttered. “I desire to speak to the Mr Reed who writes about Lady Wexin—I beg your pardon—I mean Lady W.”
“You want Samuel Reed,” Phillip said.
“Do I?” He made a slight bow. “Then perhaps you might tell me how I might get hold of him.”
Samuel stood. “I am Samuel Reed, sir, and you are?”
The man tittered. “I must beg pardon once more. I ought to have presented myself. I am Lord Chasey, at your service.” He bowed again.
“Lord Chasey,” Samuel repeated. “What do you wish to speak to me about?”
“About Lady Wexin—I mean, Lady W.” He tittered again.
“What about her?” Samuel and Phillip asked in unison.
“I am certain that I might be the father of her child.”
“You?” Samuel’s voice rose an octave. He did not believe this for an instant.
“I do think I am certain of it.” Lord Chasey repeated, all seriousness.
“Why do you come here to tell us?” Phillip asked.
From a pocket in his waistcoat Chasey pulled out a quizzing glass and peered at Phillip through it. “And who might you be?”
Phillip rose. “Phillip Reed, the editor of the newspaper.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Chasey. “You have the same surname.”
“Brothers usually do,” responded Phillip.
Chasey’s eyebrows rose. “You are brothers?”
“Yes, we are,” replied Samuel. “What is it you want of me, my lord?”
“Why, to print my name in your newspaper as being the father of the unborn child. You can call me Viscount C from Yorkshire. That should do it.”
Phillip shot Samuel another amused glance. If he was not careful, the two of them would burst out laughing.
“Let me make certain I understand you.” Samuel gave him a droll look. “You wish me to report that you take responsibility for Lady Wexin’s unborn child?”
“Responsibility?” Lord Chasey squeaked. “Dear me, no. I merely want you to imply that I could possibly be the father.”
This man wants his name in the paper. Samuel had encountered many like him before. Who knows? Perhaps Viscount C from Yorkshire thought this would raise him in the esteem of his companions, the way the latest in waistcoats might do.
Samuel rubbed his face. He might as well print the story. The more men who came forwards claiming to be the father, the more newspapers they sold. “Very well, sir.”
Chasey beamed.
Samuel could not resist adding, “But you must promise to report back to me every detail of your next meeting with her—all that a gentleman can tell, that is.”
“My next meeting—?” Lord Chasey glanced around in distress. He took several quick breaths and mopped his brow again. “I…uh…will certainly report every possible detail of any…uh…future meeting I have with the lady.”
Phillip twisted away, covering his mouth. His shoulders shook.
Samuel extended his hand to Lord Chasey. “I shall compose a mention of you for tomorrow’s paper.”
Chasey stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and accepted Samuel’s handshake, grinning like an excited schoolboy. “Excellent! That is excellent.” He managed to put his hat back on his head. “I will take my leave of you, then.”
One more bow and Chasey was gone, the door closing behind him. Phillip let loose, laughing so hard tears came to his eyes. “I’ll wager you ten pounds that popinjay has never been within four miles of Lady Wexin.”
“No bet.” Samuel grinned. “I’ll use his name, though. We might as well share the joke with our readers.”
Samuel wanted to keep the speculation alive as to whether another man had fathered Lady Wexin’s unborn child. To own the truth, Samuel had discovered nothing to suggest that the baby was any man’s but Wexin’s, but his gut told him there was someone else. Unfortunately, his meetings with Lady Wexin’s maid, Mary, had yielded nothing.
No information, that is. Samuel’s time with Mary was the best part of his week. They met whenever she could get away, sharing ices at Gunter’s or strolling through Hyde Park. The best times were evenings when he waited near the gate for her. He’d stolen no more than kisses, but Mary’s kisses were sweeter than another woman’s favours.
Lord Levenhorne reported that August 16 was the crucial date. If Lady Wexin’s baby was not born at the stroke of midnight, separating August 15 from August 16, it would prove that the father was another man. The story would remain alive at least that long, and Samuel would have reason to keep seeing Mary. She would keep thinking he was Samuel Charles who worked for a printer, but this idyll could not last for ever.
Frowning, Samuel pulled out a sheet of paper and trimmed a quill pen before dipping it into a pot of ink. He scratched out several lines about Lord C, the Irish Viscount who claimed to be the father of Lady W’s child.
Ironic that Chasey possessed the same initial as the man Samuel had first suspected to have been Lady Wexin’s lover. Beyond the one brief encounter of which Samuel had been a part, Samuel could not discover from Mary or anyone else that Lord Cavanley had ever set foot in Lady Wexin’s house. Mary did not seem to know who Cavanley was.
Levenhorne said the betting book in White’s did not give Cavanley any odds of being the father. Odds favoured Lord Crayden, who had been known to court Lady Wexin before her betrothal to her murderous husband, but Samuel could not discover that Crayden had called upon the lady either. There were other men who had boasted of being Lady W’s secret lover, but none proved more than idle boasting.
The child’s paternity remained a mystery. Samuel did not mind using the mystery to keep speculation alive, but the newsman in him pined to beat the other papers to the real story.
He finished the short but tantalising column and poured blotting sand on it, carefully shaking the excess sand back into its container.
Chasey would have to do for the moment, one small step in Samuel’s quest to make The New Observer number one above The Morning Post, The Morning Chronicle, The Times and all the other papers vying for the position.
Adrian walked into his parents’ library. His father was seated behind the desk attending to his correspondence; his mother reclined on a chaise reading.
She closed her book. “Adrian, we were so worried about you!” Her white hair made her look every inch the countess she now was. She’d always been a beautiful woman and remained so in her maturity.
Adrian crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek. “Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.”
His father looked at him over spectacles perched on his nose. “I wrote to you two days ago.”
Adrian had received his father’s missive, but had stuffed it in his pocket and headed off to Madame Bisou’s, where he’d engaged in a marathon of card playing and drinking, something that had become a pattern for him of late. When he’d woken up this morning at Madame Bisou’s, he’d had no clear memory of how he’d spent the entire previous day. His father’s letter and one from Tanner were still in the pocket of the coat he had slept in.
Adrian answered his father. “I came as soon as I read it.” Which was true enough. “I confess, I feared bad news, but you both look the picture of health.” Better to shift the attention