“Butcher and his wife,” Aunt mouthed and Helena nodded.
She had to guess that the wife had accompanied her husband on his deliveries because of the tidings that might be shared. She was soon proven right.
“A blackened eye, I tell you, and bruises all over himself, as what I hear,” confided the butcher’s wife. “They say his valet had to carry him to bed and that he may never be the same again. Such a fight it must have been!”
Surely she could not mean Lord Addersley? Helena’s heart rose to her throat at these tidings.
“But the viscount yet lives?” Nixon asked.
“He does.” The butcher’s wife might have been disappointed.
“One must wonder at the state of his opponent,” Nixon said.
“Indeed! They say he confronted the thief who has been stealing from Addersley Manor.”
“Oh, a desperate villain!”
Had Gerald been stealing from the house? Helena wished she could ask the viscount for more detail. And who had appeared in the fields the night before? The horse and cloak, she was certain, had been the same. According to this tale, the viscount had been too injured to ride out. How would Gerald have gotten the horse?
He might be a thief through and through.
“And one yet at large,” the butcher’s wife said. “You should see your doors locked at night.”
“We will. The ostler from Addersley Manor brought us a warning, but with less detail.”
“These are sorry times. Roger says there will be a duel yet, on the green of Addersley village.”
“A duel!” Mrs. Nixon breathed in horror.
“People forget what a dissolute life the viscount lived in London a decade ago, but I remember well enough. The old viscount was most unhappy with his sons, though more disappointed in his heir. He expected better of the boy than gambling, dueling and whoring.”
“Indeed. Any father would.”
“And even in this matter, I say the viscount should have shown greater care for his responsibilities. Why would he confront a villain alone, let alone so far from the house and any assistance? There is the rash choice of a foolhardy man and matters might have ended even more poorly. With the old viscount dead and buried, and his lordship’s younger brother dead at Waterloo, there is no one to assume the title.”
“He should have married by now,” Nixon said. “There should be children already.”
“Indeed. He neglects his duties.” The butcher’s wife’s voice dropped low. “I heard he offered for your mistress’s niece but she declined him.”
Helena’s cheeks burned.
“That she did,” Nixon acknowledged. “I learned of it upon my arrival. Though I might have found fault with that choice mere days ago, these tidings convince me that the girl was fortunate in her decision.”
“I should say as much, for only now do we hear the tale of the viscount’s mistress.”
Mistress! Helena gripped the handle of her tea cup, certain it could not be true.
“Mistress!” Nixon echoed in horror.
“Mistress?” Aunt mouthed in outrage, glared at Helena as if the fault were hers, then leaned closer to the open door.
“Mistress. There can be no mistake.” The butcher’s wife continued in a scandalized whisper, one that was still easy to hear from the other room. “Her name is Mrs. Lewis,” she said with the satisfaction of one with a juicy tale to share. “She lives in Haynesdale Hollow with her brother and son.”
“Son?” Nixon asked.
“Son,” the butcher’s wife affirmed. “A boy of nine summers who is the very image of the viscount at that age, by all accounts—and worse, the viscount purchased an annuity for Mrs. Lewis just this past week. I had it from she who cleans Mr. Newson’s house on Mondays, so it is true. Was there ever a more sure sign of guilt?”
Helena could not even look at Aunt, so great was her dismay.
