As Heath watched her walk away, he wondered which of the many dowagers and spinsters present had employed Miss Winfield as companion. Was she the poor relation of someone he knew? His eyes tracked her as she made her way toward the rear of the salon.
“There’s Grenville,” came a voice. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Blast. Heath turned to see who had interrupted his bout of shameless sleuthing.
A cluster of dandies swarmed around him like a cloud of gnats.
“Is it true you helped the Duke of Lambley, Grenville?” asked one.
“Of course it’s true, you ninny,” said another before Heath could reply. “Grenville can do anything.”
“Should he, though?” asked a third. “Lambley’s name is still shockingly scandalous, I say.”
“Then just imagine what we’d be saying about those masquerades if Grenville hadn’t worked his magic!” said the first.
They all began talking over each other at once.
“There would likely be a caricature about him posted on every window in London.”
“So true! Did you see the one about Wainwright?”
“Lord of Pleasure?Who hasn’t seen that? Poor sap is spiraling on a mission to ‘reshape his image.’”
“Saw that nonsense in the betting book. Went against him, of course.”
“There’s no chance of the Lord of Pleasure avoiding further infamy!” exclaimed another. “Unless he hires Grenville to fix the matter in his favor… That would be poor sportsmanship, wouldn’t it?”
“Poor sportsmanship?” said the first dandy. “Cheating, I say! Paying a scandal-fixer to solve one’s problems takes the sport right out of it.”
The second dandy whirled toward Heath. “Tell the truth, Grenville. Is Wainwright one of your clients?”
A hushed silence fell as the entire gaggle of dandies waited breathlessly for Heath’s reply.
“I never disclose my clients’ names, or their business,” he admonished, his tone final.
But he couldn’t fault them for asking.
Since the ubiquitous sketches first appeared all over London, the anonymous artist had become the sole topic across town. The caricaturist was a cretin. In a scant few days, his irresponsible drawings had caused more uproar than Cruikshank and Gillray combined. Unconscionable.
As a member of the very society being mocked, Heath was morally and personally offended. As a professional dedicated to minimizing scandal for the betterment of all, he was both annoyed and outraged. Worse, after witnessing his sister’s charity work cost poor Dahlia a fair portion of her status, Heath was frightened by the possibilities.
If the idle stroke of this man’s pen was enough to turn a gentleman like the Earl of Wainwright into the most celebrated rake of theton, what damage might he cause to someone more helpless to defend herself?
Chapter 3
Nora had just carried her pencils and sketchbook of fashionable dresses to her adopted corner in one of the baroness’s numerous receiving parlors when a footman arrived bearing the morning’s correspondence on a silver platter.
“Lady Roundtree is still abed,” Nora informed him with a smile.
He ought to know as much, even if he never ventured upstairs. The baroness rarely roused before noon, especially now that she’d taken to adding a few more drops of laudanum to her nightly cup of warm milk.
Nora, on the other hand, had suffered a restless night. Between heart-pounding recollections of the moment when handsome Mr. Grenville had believed her worthy of an invitation to dance, and nightmares of how and why private sketches she’d sent to her family had become gossip fodder for the entireton, sleep had proven elusive.
Perhaps the resulting exhaustion explained why a long moment passed before she realized the footman still stood in the open doorway, silver tray outstretched with stoic patience.
“Forme?” Heart racing, Nora leapt to her feet and flew across the room.
In the center of the silver tray rested a single folded letter.
