She’d written to everyone she could think of inquiring about possible places to work or live but had received only negative responses so far. Her father was renting a small room at an inn on Haymarket Street and had no room for her. Her Aunt Martha, the only other family she had in London, was not in town because her home was currently undergoing a significant renovation after it had flooded during a rainstorm a few months before. Her options were starting to look like either moving back to Canbury House in the country—where she would at least have a roof over her head, although nothing to do and no purpose to her life—or find a position or lodging in London. She did not have enough money for a long stay at an inn, and that was not a sustainable solution anyway. So she had no idea what she would do.
The glare John’s wife, Eliza, shot Adele as she sat down to breakfast one morning was harsh enough to make paint peel, and Adele knew she needed to leave soon.
“I say,” said John, oblivious to the daggers in his wife’s eyes, “it was Swynford who stayed here for a few days, was it not?”
“Yes,” said Adele. She’d had time to practice the story without a whiff of impropriety. “He’d hit his head and stayed here while he recovered from his injury.”
“It says here in the paper that a Duke of S is courting a Miss S. Swynford is the onlySduke I can think of who is not married.”
“Is that the paper or the scandal sheet?” asked Eliza.
John shrugged. “What’s the difference?”
Eliza sighed. “There are otherSdukes. Somerset?”
“His wife just gave birth.”
“Sussex?”
“Married. You met his wife at Covent Garden just yesterday.”
“Then I suppose we’ve used process of elimination. But who is Miss S?”
John scoffed. “You care more about this nonsense than you pretend, wife. I do not know about this Miss S. There are probably a hundred women in London with a name like that.”
It was clearly not Adele Paulson, however. Adele’s heart sank. Hugh was courting someone. Not that Adele had any right to him, and of course he would find another woman to court, but she had not imagined he would move on so soon.
Eliza leaned toward her husband, though she shot Adele another scathing look before she said, “I had heard he paid Miss Eugenia Sackville a lot of attention at a recent ball. Bethany mentioned that to me yesterday.”
“You were gossiping about Swynford yesterday?”
“No, we were gossiping about Miss Sackville, if you must know. Bethany went to the Wakefield ball and said Miss Sackville’s behavior was positively ghastly. I’ve run into her afew times, so this news did not surprise me. She is the daughter of Baron Sackville, but she hardly seems gently bred. No one ever taught that girl manners. But I suppose she is pretty if you squint.”
Adele’s mind had swirled through this entire conversation. She connected the name to the woman Hugh had waltzed with at the Wakefield ball. That woman had been quite pretty. That Eliza didn’t like her hardly signified; Eliza didn’t like anyone.
Regardless, it was likely Hugh had found a potential bride who was far more favorable to his family than Adele would have been. Adele’s father held a higher rank than Baron Sackville, but a much weaker reputation. Adele knew of Baron Sackville and knew the Crown had given him the title for some good deed he had done. He was also absurdly wealthy, which likely also boosted Miss Sackville’s prospects; her father was likely offering a generous dowry.
Eliza went on at some length about various young women in thetonand how much she disliked them. John mostly flipped through the newspaper while saying, “Mmhmm” at appropriate intervals to make his wife think he was listening.
Adele focused on her breakfast and willed the rest of the meal to pass quickly. She did not want to betray her emotions where Hugh was concerned, and she chastised herself for feeling so gutted that he was giving attention to another woman.
John set the newspaper aside. “Oh, Lady Adele, I nearly forgot. The Marquess of Winchester is looking for a governess for his younger children. I can secure a meeting for you if you’re interested.”
Adele understood implicitly that she had no choice in the matter. “I am much obliged, my lord.”
Chapter Seventeen
“This, my friends,”said Beresford, “is a cognac Mr. White just got in from France. I should like to share it with you all.”
Fletcher shot Lark a questioning look, and Hugh had the sense that there was something about this situation he knew but could not recall. He wondered, not for the first time, if Lark and Beresford were lovers, but it seemed rude to ask. And besides that, Hugh was anxious to hear what Beresford had learned about Adele.
He waited for Beresford to pour five glasses and settle himself into a chair around the table. Lark and Owen had been eating dinner when Hugh arrived and each man was a good way through a substantial beefsteak. Hugh had eaten before leaving for the club and hadn’t been hungry at any rate. He looked around and realized that they were seated a fair distance from all of the other gentlemen in the club, probably by Lark’s design. At least they could speak freely.
Hugh tried the cognac and found it rich and a little sweet with a woody flavor. He liked it. But he felt like Beresford was using this as a delaying tactic. Rather than waiting for Beresford, Hugh said, “Did your discreet inquiries yield any information.”
“Yes,” said Beresford.
Hugh leaned forward in anticipation. Fletcher sent him a questioning look, but Hugh ignored him.
