Imogen nodded, still not trusting herself to speak.
‘Don’t pay it any mind,’ the countess advised. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing. They’ve been saying worse about me for years. You should have seen the things that were being written when Ivo and I were courting. Let alone the things they wrote about me before that. I don’t know when I would have found time to sleep.’
‘But no one in your family was threatening to have you transported.’ And she was a wealthy woman with a powerful family. Always had been.
‘Transported?’ George’s eyes flashed. ‘You should have let me shoot him.’
Gabriel stared down at the most recent edition of Lady Banbury’s scandal sheet and cursed. His cousin Victoria had sent it round, folded up inside a sheet of foolscap upon which she had written, Damn you.—V.
He hadn’t been thinking. He’d made sure to keep George and the rest of them in the dark, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that the gossips would take such vicious notice of a single outing. She’d been seen on his arm for less than an hour, in a very public place. But the column spoke for itself:
As mentioned here before, this author has heard over and over from the gentlemen of her acquaintance, of the beauty of the mystery lady seen on the dangerous Brimstone’s arm at the First October Races. This same lady is reported to have been seen in the company of the even more deadly Lord Drake, and the equally reprehensible Duke of Alençon. Such a wild group of cicisbei has not been seen in recent years. I am happy to announce that it required little effort to discover the lady’s identity. It seems that the infamous Portrait Divorcée has reappeared, and is keeping company with one of, or possibly many of, society’s most scandalous bachelors. This comes as no surprise after the episode which ended her marriage, but one would have thought the lady would have learnt her lesson. This author is forced to wonder, has the devilish Brimstone found a new way to keep himself entertained when the lure of his usual pursuits wanes? And is poor Mr Perrin aware of his former wife’s current tastes in entertainment?
As he read the column over, phrases jumped out at him: Mystery Lady…one of, possibly some of. Gabriel cursed again and clenched his teeth. He’d dearly like to throttle Lady Banbury, whoever supplied her with information, and her damned publisher. Imogen had been skittish enough as it was.
This couldn’t possibly be good.
If Torrie was angry, George was likely to be in a rage, and Lord only knew what his nymph’s response would be. He’d be lucky to get within ten feet of her at the shooting party, if she even showed up.
Horrible thought, that. She might not even attend. And even if she did, he might not want to; George was sure to be out for blood. She’d specifically warned him off, and he’d ignored her. Gabriel crumpled his cousin’s note and the column and tossed it into the fire. Taking a savage satisfaction as they blossomed atop the coals.
Chapter Fourteen
Not even the considerable charms of London’s most beautiful widow have proven enough to lure Lord St A—— from his monastic ways. What a pity…
Tête-à-Tête, 16 October 1789
Imogen sat beside George in the countess’s phaeton. Driving had been a compromise with the earl, who had wanted his now noticeably pregnant wife to take the coach, while she had wanted to ride. They were bowling along at a spanking pace, behind the countess’s greys, on their way to Winsham Court.
No argument Imogen had put forth had swayed her friend in the least. George insisted Imogen attend. If for no other reason than that to not do so would reinforce the damage the gossips had done, and possibly make her brother think she’d been deserted. It would make it appear as if Imogen was being shunned, and nothing, as Imogen knew, drew the attention of the scandal mongers like the scent of wounded prey.
Though she knew George was right, Imogen was still not feeling at all confident. Before her mother and Helen’s letters she’d been happily dreaming about two weeks with Gabriel. Now she was almost dreading them.
A private affair was one thing; a public intrigue was something else. People were already watching, and any signs of an illicit relationship would spread like wildfire. None of their close friends would gossip, but Lord Glendower’s party would not be limited to their small, select group.
She couldn’t endure being raked over the coals again.
She gripped the side of the seat as George swung through the gates of Winsham Court, and the phaeton sluiced slightly from side to side as the wheels rolled onto the gravel of the drive. The earl, riding behind them, gave a yelp, and George slowed her team. They travelled up the shady drive, until finally the house came into view. Imogen gave an appreciative gasp and simply stared. The seat of the Earls of Glendower was every bit as amazing as the guide books made it out to be. The house was massive; four stories of yellow Bath stone that reflected the light back with a soft glow. The drive circled up to a semi-circular dais of steps that led to a massive door.
Imogen smiled, and looked about, trying to take it all in.
‘Wait until you see the courtyard,’ George advised her.
‘What’s in the courtyard?’
‘It’s not what’s in it. Lyon’s grandfather had the entire thing glassed in, and then fought with the tax assessor tooth and nail. The earl insisted it was all one window, but the tax assessor wanted to charge for every pane. I think the earl died still fighting, and the current earl finally paid the bill simply to have it over and done with; much to the dowager’s annoyance. It’s amazing. Multi-story stone staircases up to the
