“If I could have married in Hampshire, do you think I’d be here?”
“Lower your standards.”
“To the cowboy?” Ariana snapped. “No, I won’t. I’m innocent. Can’t I sue?”
“Sue?”Lady Cawle asked, outraged.
“I’ve read of such cases. Slander or libel. I can sue the newspaper, and then the truth will come out.”
“That youweren’tin the cellar with Kynaston?”
“That Ethel was with us!”
“We’ve dealt with that.”
“We weren’t there long enough.”
“It doesn’t take very long.”
Ariana wasn’t sure what that meant, but she tried not to show it. “What does Kynaston say about this?” she asked. “Will he simply let it die down?”
“He has gone to speak to the editor of the foul rag.”
Ariana relaxed. “Then there’ll be a retraction in tomorrow’s paper.”
“You have great faith in him,” Lady Cawle said, narrow-eyed.
“He’s an earl. If he pushes hard enough, they’ll print that the moon is made of cheese.”
“The press is not so cowed by the nobility as it once was, but you could be correct. However, mud sticks.”
A tap at the door brought the footman with a note for Ariana. She took it eagerly, expecting it to be from Kynaston. It was from Sellerden, apologizing for having to disappoint her, but he’d been called to the country by a family emergency.
She folded it, chilled by the first breath of disaster.
“What was that?” her mother asked anxiously.
“I was to go to the Egyptian Hall with Lord Sellerden, but he’s been called out of Town.”
Lady Cawle expressed her opinion with a grunt. Ariana’s mother sagged back. “We’ll not be received anywhere. Truly, Ariana, we should go home.”
Ariana feared it would come to that, but it would seal her fate. “I’ll wait until I hear from Kynaston.”
•••
Kynaston was entering the shabby backstreet premises of theLondon Intelligencer.
“Mr. Yarby?” he demanded of the sour-faced, shirtsleeved man who was sorting through sheets of paper on a counter.
“Who wants to see him?”
“The Earl of Kynaston.”
The man’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’ll see if he’s in, milord.”
He went toward a door, but Kynaston stepped forward and pushed him out of the way. He opened the door himself to see a man at a desk in a musty, ramshackle room that teetered with books and papers. The editor of theIntelligencerwas a spare man with hollow cheeks and a blotchy complexion.
“What do you want?” he demanded, unawed by an obvious gentleman.
