“You can help,” he said while sitting and ruffling his hair. “You can help by holding your head up high and refusing to let these rumors get the best of you. Can you promise me that?”
Ariadne sat up, “I promise. As a matter-of-fact, tell Emily I’ll take her to Amelia today. You’re right, it won't help if I hide away.”
He leaned in to give her a long, lingering kiss. “I have no doubt you’ll find a way.”
“They didwhat?” Cedric growled to his Mr. James, Baur’s old clerk, whom he had unceremoniously purloined from the incompetent steward as they were on the way to Westminster for a weeklong summit.
Just like Hunt, Cedric rewarded Mr. James’s loyalty to Ariadne.
“The editor has staunchly refused to hold the story,” Mr. James said. “And it's not only one, but it's several.”
Cedric ground his teeth, “Did they say why?”
“No,” his new clerk said. “None at all.”
“They’re getting paid,” he said stiffly. “I need to know who is behind that money.”
Fixing the files on his lap, James nodded, “I’ll find an investigator to look into it.”
Speaking of investigations, no one from Bow Street had reached out to him regarding Draven, so he guessed that the case was long closed. Now he had another ne’er-do-well nipping at his heels, faking love notes, bragging about this ‘affair’, and this rumormonger was determined to destabilize his marriage.
Is it too much of a coincidence that both are happening at the same time? Is the same person trying to attack us publicly and privately?
Grabbing the Times, his eyes ran over the scandal sheets.
The Story Thickens.
The Duke’s brother, Leander, has long been known for his appetites— wine, wagers, and women. Now, his shadow looms over the Duchess herself.
Following up on the rumor that the gentlelady was to marry the duke’s brother, there is a whisper that the night before the lady was announced to marry, she was spotted dancing with the lordship himself, and later drunk at the dinner table of the duke’s ball.
Her mother led her out of the hall and, supposedly, to their rooms, a lady who wished not to be named offered her testimony. Or it could be to lead the lady to the lord’s room as a sacrificial offering or a bid for marriage? How is it then that they are announced to marry the next morning?
Cedric’s skin itched at how close these rumormongers were getting to the truth. He had faith in his staff that no one would be feeding these people private details, but he could not know for sure; a five pound not could turn any servant’s mind.
He rubbed his face, “Let's focus on this bill. Are you sure I made all the pertinent points?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” James nodded. “Do you want to go through it all again?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Let’s start.”
The debate exhausted him beyond comparison, but he’d managed to sway a few lords on the other side to see his point. He’d gone to his lodging house in the city, knowing by the next morning, things will be back to the same again.
He felt the pressing need to get back home and find this damned editor for the newspaper while bringing the hounds of hell with him. But he had to endure five more days of this and more.
Needless to say, he did not sleep well that night.
He was not eager to see the newspaper that morning, and when it was placed before him the next day, he wanted to march out of the House.
The Lady Duchess with no dowry, no rank, and no connections.
The intrepid scouts have managed to track down the original marriage order from the Archbishop, and it has been revealed that the good lady was to marry Leander Greymont. So how did the lady marry his brother instead?
To follow up with yesterday’s insinuation on the lady being drunk, another witness added that the good lady was embroiled in an interaction with Lord Moreland and his long-term mistress, Lady Dilalah, who was escorted from the premises.
Then, and this is from a bystander who knows the incident, the lady was escorted by her mother to Lord Moreland’s room, not my mistake, but by design. No one knows what happened in that room that night, but it is not too far to draw some conjecture….
Cedric flung his coffee cup at the wall, roaring in fury. Red blasted over his vision in waves. This was not good; he felt so pressed to march back to London and rip the printery down brick by brick— but he still had a job to do at Westminster.
