“No, I suppose we wouldn’t like those people. Is Montague still flapping his jaw all over Christendom?” She tried to laugh it off, but it stung to think of strangers passing judgment on her based on false information.
“The man should be on the stage from what I hear. A more wounded martyr for love you’ve never seen. The cartoonists are having a grand time, let me tell you. Between you and me, I think he’s selling these stories to pay his gambling debts,” Darling said.
“Too bad I can’t tell everyone he’s the real brute here, not Lord Amesbury. Have you heard back from Patrick regarding our little subterfuge?” At her request, Darling had sent a letter to Patrick the same day Amesbury had brought the announcement to the Times. With any luck, by the time the edition of the paper announcing their engagement arrived at Stanwick, Patrick would have prepared the staff to follow her instructions. The servants ironed the paper before Father read it over breakfast—although he didn’t always read the news, since the world beyond his library was of little interest. The papers ended up passed around the servants’ hall and eventually burned as kindling. But just in case, they’d enlisted Patrick in making that particular edition disappear. As long as Father hadn’t developed a taste for gossip pages, they should be able to contain news of her engagement until Montague had moved on and she was ready to figure out her next step.
“Not yet. Patrick will have taken care of it, don’t you worry. As to you and Montague, and what went on—I’ve held my tongue. But it’s hard,” Darling said.
“On what side are our servants?” Lottie flipped back the coverlet, then crossed to the vanity table for her hairbrush. She’d expected there would be talk, but Montague casting himself as the victim fed the flames of the gossip columns, making the chatter that much worse.
“This staff has a righteous fear of Dawson’s wrath, and Dawson’s taken a shine to you and Lady Agatha. None of us would speak against you. But servants talk at the market, over the back gate, couples stepping out together.” Darling shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid. There was nothing they could do about the talk.
Darling handed her the day’s papers. Lottie perched on the window seat to read the newest fabrications, innuendos, and allegations delivered to their door. Today’s columns reported seeing Mr. Montague visibly distraught. Not news. She snorted indelicately, then flipped to the next page.
Some reports said while he was out with his friends, he’d furiously ranted about the situation. Entirely plausible. He did love to monologue. Others claimed he wept inconsolably while declaring his heartbreak to anyone who would listen. Ah, there was the fiction. “I’d love to see that,” she muttered.
Three broadsheets later, she surmised that the papers all agreed—no matter his mood, Montague always spoke of his lost love. More like her lost dowry, but that would make him sound like a money-grubbing arse.
The treatment he’d received from MacBrute and his Paper Doll Princess was nothing short of abominable, the papers declared. To be thrown over after beginning marriage contracts in good faith was too tragic for words, said another paper. “Never mind that he shared plenty of words on the subject. This is the same rubbish, just using different phrases each day,” she told Darling. “Listen to this nonsense: How could the lady in question choose the hulking Scottish MacBrute over the Adonis-like perfection of the Earl of Danby’s son? I’ll tell you how. Lord Amesbury doesn’t have to pad his coats, and he probably doesn’t kiss like a gasping trout.”
“I bet you a week’s pay you find out for sure sooner rather than later. Lord Amesbury might be a friend now, but he’s still a man,” Darling teased.
Lottie made a noncommittal noise but held still while her maid tightened the short stays. It was her and Agatha’s at-home day, which meant an entire afternoon loomed ahead, filled with endless rounds of tea and onlookers. If she must endure a parade of curious faces, probing questions, and subtle inquiries, she’d prefer to do so while comfortable. The day dress was fashionable but looser than anything she’d wear outside the house. While smiling her way through visitors, she’d miss the buffer of Darling’s cheerfully snide commentary regarding the gossip columns.
“Can I ask you a question, milady?”
“Of course, Darling. What’s on your mind?”
“Wherever we live after London, would you be willing to bring on Patrick instead of leaving him at Stanwick Manor?”
Lottie focused on her maid in the mirror. “Are things with Patrick progressing in that direction? Has he declared himself?”
Darling shook her head. “He’s not said it in so many words. I think he’s waiting to have that conversation face-to-face. I need to be sure he’s thought it through. Marrying someone with my history—that takes a special kind of man.”
Lottie turned to squeeze her hand. “You both have histories to consider. Patrick would be the luckiest man alive if he won your heart. If you want this, then I am happy for you.” She turned around and lifted her heavy hair away from her back so Darling could fasten the line of silver buttons. “To answer your question—I would create a position for him no matter where we lived. Do not fear that I would separate the two of you.”
“That sets my mind at ease. Now, what gown do you want to wear this evening? It’s your first outing with Lord Amesbury since the engagement, so you should look spectacular.”
“How about the scarlet silk? If they’re going to talk, we might as well give them something to talk about.” Lottie winked. The red gown in particular would tell everyone she didn’t care about what the papers said. Even if she wasn’t entirely immune to the talk.
* * *
That night, light and chatter spilled from the townhome into the street, acting as a beacon for the line of carriages. With an entire
