Prey or Predator?
The Drummonds’ familydining room glowed with candlelight as servants moved silently around the table, replacing empty plates with the next course. Despite Lady Drummond’s assurance of an “informal” dinner, the gathering had somehow grown to include twelve of Society’s most notorious gossips.
“And how are you finding married life, Lady Hereford?” Lady Jersey’s question cut through the general conversation like a knife. “Such a whirlwind courtship. One hardly had time to prepare for the announcement.”
Amelia felt every eye at the table turn to her. “Quite satisfactory, thank you.” She took a deliberate sip of wine. “Though I confess, I’ve been rather focused on theMetropolitan Review.”
“TheReview?” Lady Jersey’s perfectly plucked brows rose. “Surely you don’t mean to continue with that endeavor now that you’re a marchioness?”
Before Amelia could respond, Hereford’s voice drawled from her left. “And deprive London of its most incisive commentary? That would be tragic indeed.” His tone was impossible to read. Mockery or genuine praise? “Though I must say, my dear, your latest editorial on the decline of working conditions in factories was rather pointed.”
Amelia stiffened. “Do you disagree?”
“Of course not.” He smiled at Lady Jersey. “My wife has quite the sharp wit, doesn’t she? Though I do wish she’d stop using me as herprimary example of aristocratic idiocy.”
Nervous titters circled the table. Amelia fought to keep her expression neutral as she noticed something odd. Hereford had positioned himself between her and the most critical gazes, effectively shielding her from the worst of the scrutiny. It seemed unconscious on his part, but the effect was noticeable.
“Speaking of wit,” the Duchess of Rutland spoke up from Hereford’s other side, “I heard the most fascinating rumor about your fencing lessons, Charles.” Her smile turned predatory. “Such dedication to physical… instruction.”
Amelia’s fingers tightened on her fork as the duchess leaned closer to Hereford, her décolletage practically brushing his arm. But instead of his usual flirtatious response, he shifted slightly away.
“Ah, you must have heard about my lessons with my wife, Your Grace. Lady Hereford is a natural, and she’s highly committed, which I can’t say for most female students who request lessons from me.” His voice remained pleasant but held a new distance.
“Lord Hereford,” Lady Jersey’s voice cut in again, “surely you’ll be relocating to your country estate soon? The London Season is nearly over, and I imagine Lady Hereford would benefit from quieter surroundings.”
Amelia tensed, knowing what the woman was implying. That a marchioness with a limp should be hidden away in the country rather than embarrassing her husband in London Society.
“Actually,” Hereford said while cutting into his fish, “we’ll remain in London through autumn. My wife’s business requires her presence, and I find myself rather enjoying city life at present.” He glanced at Amelia, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Besides, theReview’sreadership has doubled since last quarter and approximately half of them are the younger generation, our future. It would be poor business sense to interrupt such success.”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of subtle power plays and veiledimplications. Through it all, Hereford maintained his carefully casual air, never quite defending her but somehow making it clear that criticizing his wife would not be tolerated.
Later, as their carriage rolled through London’s darkened streets, Amelia finally spoke. “You’ve been studying my company.”
“Yes,” he replied, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light of the carriage lantern.
“How long?” she asked, surprised by his candor.
“Since before our marriage,” he admitted. “Your circulation figures, your editorial positions. It’s quite impressive how you’ve built theReviewfrom nothing.”
Amelia felt oddly unsettled by this revelation. “Why would you take such interest?”
“Perhaps I simply admire competence, whatever its source,” he suggested with a hint of his usual mockery, though his eyes remained serious.
Amelia turned to stare out the window, unwilling to examine her surprisingly diligent husband. But she couldn’t quite suppress a shiver when his voice dropped lower.
“You did well tonight, my lady. Though I must caution you about your investigation into factory conditions.” His tone turned serious. “These owners are not men to be trifled with. They employ local thugs to protect their interests, and they care little for proper channels of justice.”
Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the darkened streets outside. “I’m merely reporting facts, my lord. Surely you don’t suggest I ignore clear violations of safety regulations?”
“I suggest you value your safety above your principles.” His voice held an edge of frustration. “These men have ways of silencing those who probe too deeply into their affairs.”
Despite herself, Amelia felt her lips curve into a bitter smile. “Oh, I’m quite aware of their methods, my lord. More aware than you know.”
A heavy silence filled the carriage. When Hereford spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost gentle. “Then you understand why I ask you to be careful. Promise me you’ll exercise caution in your investigations.”
But Amelia had already retreated behind her usual wall of cool professionalism, leaving his request unanswered as London’s shadows flickered past.
*
