Scandalising the Ton. Diane Gaston
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Newton gave him a level gaze. “It will be kept in complete confidence. I have been successful in keeping the extent of Wexin’s debts from becoming public knowledge, and I certainly can keep Lady Wexin’s affairs private.”
Affairs.
The word sparked the memory of Adrian’s very brief affair with Lydia, an affair she was loath to continue.
He supposed he was mad for bestowing a small fortune on a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. It was not like him to invest time or money in a lady who had no regard for him, but what would happen to Lydia if he did not assist her? He was investing in her happiness, a divergence from indulging in his own.
What’s more, it was his money to do with as he wished. And he wished to do good with it, to feel a scant bit useful in this world. Besides, it gave him a new game to play, to see how long it would take to recoup the amount of money he had invested in Lydia. How many card games and horse races and other wagering would he have to engage in before he earned back the total amount? It was a game.
Nothing more.
Adrian and Newton completed all the arrangements and shook hands. When Adrian walked back to the Strand, the sun was peeking through the clouds. He headed in the direction of waiting hackney coaches, feeling both exhilarated and deflated.
The next morning from the drawing-room window, Lydia watched Mr Newton leave her townhouse. As soon as he stepped onto the pavement, he was accosted by a throng of newspaper men. Mr Newton pushed his way through them, waving a hand and shaking his head.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Mr Newton had not stopped to talk to the newspaper men. She ought to have known. Mr Newton had not breathed a word of how distressed Wexin’s finances had been, and still were. It appeared Mr Newton would also not discuss this reversal of her misfortune, this restoring of her finances.
It was too remarkable to be true. Her widow’s portion was restored and the house was securely hers. She had income and a place to live.
Lydia hugged herself and twirled around for joy. The news was too good to keep to herself a moment longer. She dashed out of the room and hurried down the stairs.
“Dixon!” she cried. “Mary! Oh, get Cook! I have something to tell you!”
Mary leaned over the second-floor banister above her. “What is it? What has happened?”
Lydia called up to her. “Come! I will tell you all.” She flew down the stairs to the hall.
Dixon appeared from the back staircase, trailed by Cook wiping her hands on her apron and looking frightened.
Lydia ran up to the woman and gave her a squeeze. “Do not worry. It is good news.”
“Good news from Mr Newton, my lady?” Dixon looked sceptical. There had, after all, been so much bad news from him.
Lydia clasped her hands together. “Oh, it is so unbelievable. It must have been my sister—”
Who else but her sister? Lydia had no indication that her letters had reached her parents. No one else knew of her distressed finances. No one but—
Adrian.
It was unthinkable that he would pay such sums. Ridiculous, even. Her sister’s husband was extremely wealthy. Her sister must have convinced him to do this in secret.
“Tell us, m’lady,” Mary cried.
Lydia took a breath. “Mr Newton informed me that someone—it must have been my sister—has restored my widow’s portion and has signed the house and its contents over to me! Mr Newton assures me the interest on the six-percents will give us income enough!”
“Oh, my lady!” Mary exclaimed.
“May God be praised.” Cook fell to her knees. “We can buy food!”
Lydia grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Food and coal and whatever we need!” She turned to the butler. “Will you find our servants, Dixon? Hire those who wish to return and pay the others what we owe them?”
Dixon beamed. “It will be my pleasure.”
Still holding Cook’s hands, Lydia swung her around in a circle. “Everything shall be as it was!”
Not precisely as it was, but so much better than she thought her future ever could be when she’d risen from her bed that morning.
Lydia gave Cook another hug. “We must celebrate today! I even have money to spend! Fifty pounds! We must fill the larder and celebrate!”
“I shall make a dinner fit for King George!” Cook cried.
Lydia swept her arm to include all of them. “We must eat together, though. I insist upon it. Just this once.”
“May I suggest, my lady, that I bring up a bottle of champagne from the cellar?” Dixon asked.
“That would be splendid!” Lydia clapped her hands. “Champagne for dinner.”
Dixon lifted a finger. “I meant immediately, my lady.”
“Yes,” cried Lydia. “Mary, find four glasses, and all join me in the morning room.”
Lydia walked into the morning room, the small parlour off the hall, a room where callers were often asked to wait until they could be announced.
A sound sent her spinning towards the windows.
Outside the reporters, all abuzz, were all facing the house, craning their necks over the railings to try to see into the room.
With a cry, Lydia drew the curtains.
Her celebration did not include them.
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