Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane Gaston
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information. Samuel was skilled at taking the tiniest bits of scandal and inflating them larger than any hot-air balloon.
Samuel reached the corner of St James’s and Piccadilly, sweeping Piccadilly Street with his gaze.
Carriages and riders crowded the thoroughfare, and the pavement abounded with men in tall beaver hats and caped topcoats. Curses to that Beau Brummell. Gentlemen dressed too much the same these days because of him. Samuel searched for a man taller than average, one who carried himself like a Corinthian.
Such a man appeared in the distance. Samuel shaded his eyes with his hand and watched him for several seconds. He decided to come closer. Samuel crossed Piccadilly and walked towards him, holding on to the brim of his hat so the man would not see his face.
Within a foot of the man, Samuel’s excitement grew. This was the one! His instincts never failed.
Samuel walked past the gentleman and doubled back as soon as he could, quickening his step. If he could follow close behind, perhaps he would hear someone greet the man by name.
To Samuel’s surprise, the gentleman turned into New Bond Street. Samuel almost lost him when several nattily attired young fellows, laughing and shoving each other, blocked his way. His view cleared in time to see the man enter the jewellers Stedman & Vardon.
Jewellers?
Already Samuel had begun spinning stories of why the gentleman should enter a jewellery shop, all of them involving Lady Wexin. He preferred learning the real story. True stories had a way of being more fantastic than anything he could conjure up.
Samuel wandered to the doorway of the shop and peeked in. The gentleman spoke to the shop assistant and suddenly turned around to head back out the door. Samuel ducked aside as the man brushed past him.
Samuel ran inside the shop. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Who was that gentleman?”
The shop assistant looked up. “The gentleman who was just here?”
“Yes. Yes.” Samuel glanced towards the door. He did not want to lose track of the man.
“Lord Cavanley, do you mean?”
“Cavanley!” Samuel’s voice was jubilant. “Thank you, sir.” He rushed out of the shop in time to catch a disappearing glimpse of the gentleman.
Lord Cavanley. Samuel did not know of a Lord Cavanley, but it should be an easy matter to learn about him.
Samuel hurried to catch up. He followed Cavanley to Sackville Street where he entered another jewellery shop. Puzzling. Perhaps Cavanley was searching for the perfect jewel. He did not, however, even glance at the sparkling gems displayed on black velvet beneath glass cases. He merely conversed with the older man with balding pate and spectacles. The jeweller, perhaps? In any event, the man seemed somewhat reluctant to speak to this lord.
Finally the jeweller nodded in seeming resignation and said something that apparently satisfied Cavanley. The men shook hands, the jeweller bowed, and Lord Cavanley strode out the door. Samuel turned quickly and pretended to examine something in the shop window next door.
After Cavanley passed by him, Samuel entered the shop. He smiled at the jeweller. “Good day to you, sir. I saw you with Lord Cavanley a moment ago. Did he make a purchase?”
The jeweller’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
Samuel dug into his pocket and pulled out his card. “I am a reporter for The New Observer. I am certain my readers would relish knowing what lovely object Lord Cavanley purchased.”
The man frowned and the wrinkles in his face deepened. “His lordship purchased nothing, so you may go on your way.”
“He purchased nothing?” Samuel, of course, had already surmised this. “Then what was his purpose here, I wonder?”
The jeweller peered at Samuel from over his spectacles. “Wonder all you wish. I am not about to tell you the business of a patron, am I now?”
Samuel gave the man his most congenial look. “I assure you, kind sir, our readers would relish knowing where a man with such exquisite taste in jewellery would shop. I dare say one mention of your establishment in our newspaper will bring you more customers than you can imagine.”
“Hmph.” The jeweller crossed his arms over his chest. “I am more interested in keeping the customers I have, thank you very much. Telling the world what they buy from me will not win me their loyalty.”
“Sir—”
The man held up a hand. “No. No more talking.” Another customer, more finely dressed than Samuel, entered the shop. “I must attend to this gentleman. Good day now. Run along.”
Dismissed like an errant schoolboy.
Samuel bit down on a scathing retort. He might have need of this jeweller at a later time and he’d best not antagonise him. Back out on the pavement, he scanned the street for Lord Cavanley, but too much time had passed and the man was gone.
Samuel pushed his hat more firmly upon his head and turned in the direction of The New Observer offices. He planned to learn all he could about this Lord Cavanley. He’d start with old issues of their rival newspapers saved for just such a purpose.
Adrian dashed to a line of hackney coaches. “Thomas Coutts and Company on the Strand, if you please.” He climbed in and leaned back against the leather seat.
At that last shop Mr Gray had confirmed what Adrian had suspected. Lydia had sold her jewels.
A lady did not resort to selling her jewels unless she was in desperate need of money. No matter her protestations to him, she was skimping on coal and candles, he was certain of it.
It rankled Adrian that Levenhorne and Wexin’s trustee, a banker of considerable wealth, would allow an earl’s wife to exist in such poverty. If her parents and brother were abroad and her sister forbidden to assist her, to whom could the lady turn for help?
Adrian had no connection to her, nor any obligation. It would certainly be commented upon if he stepped forwards to assist her, but assist her he would. In secret.
He smiled as the hackney coach swayed and bounced over the cobbled streets. At least he’d found something of interest to occupy his time. Solving the puzzle that was Lydia and easing her troubles seemed a better purpose than seating himself at a card table, checking out good horseflesh or, God forbid, entangling himself with Viola Denson. It mattered not one whit to Adrian that no one would know of it, least of all Lydia.
Although a part of him would not mind having Lydia look upon him with sapphire eyes filled with gratitude.
He shook that thought away. The coach passed Charing Cross as it turned into the Strand, and Adrian had a whiff of the Thames. He mulled over his plan until the hack stopped in front of Thomas Coutts and Company, a bank favoured by aristocrats and royalty. Adrian climbed down from the hack and paid its jarvey. He entered the bank.
In the marbled and pillared hall Adrian approached an attendant and identified himself. “I wish to speak with Mr Coutts. He is expecting me, I believe.”
Earlier that morning Adrian had sent a message to Mr Coutts, telling of his intention to call.
The attendant escorted him to a chair and returned shortly to lead him to Mr Coutts’s office.
AsAdrian entered the room, the old gentleman rose from his seat behind a polished mahogany desk. “Ah, Lord Cavanley.”
Adrian extended his hand. “Mr Coutts, it is a pleasure. Thank you for seeing me.”
Coutts gestured for Adrian to sit. “Your note indicated that you wished to discuss Lord Wexin’s estate?” The man looked wary.
Adrian smiled. “On behalf of a friend.”
Mr Coutts nodded. “It is a trying affair, but I suspect there is little I might do for you. Allow me to direct you to Wexin’s solicitor,