Scandalising the Ton. Diane Gaston
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from yesterday because of the rain.” Samuel examined the grey sky. “If you send someone else to watch her house today, I will set about discovering the identity of the gentleman who came to her aid.”
Phillip grinned. “The gentleman who rescued her from you, do you mean?”
Samuel returned the smile. “I mean precisely that.”
Samuel had a plan to scour St James’s Street where White’s and Brooks’s were located. Whether this fellow be Tory or Whig, he’d walk down St James’s Street to reach his club.
Phillip crossed his arms over his chest. “Her Majesty the Queen is doing poorly. We need some detail about her illness that the other papers do not know.”
Another priority of the paper was royal news, and the Reed brothers would not make the same mistake as Leigh and John Hunt, who went to prison for printing a mild criticism of the Prince Regent in the Examiner. The New Observer lavished praise on the royals.
“Do not send me to Kew Palace, I beg you.” Samuel was eager to pursue what he considered his story. Lady Wexin.
“I would not dream of it.” His brother waved his hand. “Hurry out there and find your gentleman.”
Samuel soon found himself strolling back and forth on St James’s Street, trying to look as if he had business there. He’d been strolling in the vicinity for at least an hour and was prepared to do so all day long, if necessary, until he laid eyes upon the gentleman who had come to Lady Wexin’s assistance.
Samuel had done a great deal of thinking about why the lady would have ventured out alone that day. When he had first spied her, she’d been walking from the direction of the shops, but it was quite unlikely that a lady would visit the shops in the afternoon. That was the time young bucks lounged on street corners to watch gentlemen with their less-than-ladylike companions saunter by.
It was more likely Lady Wexin had been calling upon someone, but who? Samuel had not known her to make social calls since her husband’s story became known.
Samuel’s scanty exclusive—knowledge that she’d been out and about alone and knowledge that a fine-looking gentleman had come to her aid—still gave him an edge over the other reporters who wasted their time watching her front door. All he needed was the tiniest piece of new 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