“His club? It’s barely past ten.”
“Indeed. Which means something has driven him there very early—or driven him away from here.” She hesitated, then reached for the folded newspaper. “Cook brought this in with breakfast. I’ve been debating whether to let you see it.”
A ripple of dread passed through Marianne. “See what?”
Her mother handed it over without a word.
TheMorning Gazette—and, beneath the respectable news, the far less respectable column beloved by every drawing room in London:On-Dit and Observations from the Season.
Marianne unfolded the page, her pulse quickening as her eyes caught a name—or something perilously close to one.
Among the many amusements at Lady Rothwell’s recent soirée, none provoked such interest—or dismay—as the spectacle afforded by His Grace the Duke of H— and a certain Miss W—, daughter of a well-known shipping magnate newly come into society.
Those of delicate sensibilities may wish to avert their gaze, for reports suggest the pair has been observed in a position of unmistakable intimacy, removed from the company and heedless of decorum. A conservatory, glass-walled and well-lit, leaves little to imagination, and one cannot but wonder at the courage—or folly—of those who choose such a stage.
Whispers abound that the lady in question has long been encouraged to reach above her station, her father’s enterprise profiting handsomely from the patronage of noble clients who might now reconsider their associations. It is said His Grace—ever a subject of speculation and shadow—has been ensnared not merely by beauty, but by ambition of a more calculating kind. Whether through misplaced gallantry or design, the consequence is plain: a gentleman’s honour imperilled, a lady’s virtue undone, and a merchant house whose respectability hangs by a thread of its own making.
Society, of course, will look to the Duke of H— for resolution. It remains to be seen whether he will repair what may already be beyond redemption—or whether Miss W—’s family will learn that commerce and consequence make uneasy bedfellows.
She could read no further. Folding the paper with shaking hands, she placed it on the table as though it might soil the furniture.
“They make no pretence at subtlety,” she murmured.
“No,” her mother agreed quietly. “And by noon, it will be everywhere. Half of London will be rehearsing their opinions of your virtue over tea and seed cake.”
Marianne managed a laugh that wasn’t entirely steady. “Well, at least they’ll find something to agree upon.”
Before her mother could answer, the door opened and Jenkins appeared, looking graver than usual. “Mr Whitcombe has returned, ma’am.”
Her mother glanced up sharply. “So soon?”
“Yes, ma’am. He asks that you and Miss Whitcombe attend him in the drawing room.”
Marianne rose, smoothing her gown with hands that felt unaccountably clumsy. “Did he say why?”
Jenkins hesitated. “His Grace of Harrowmere is with him.”
For a moment, neither woman spoke. The only sound was the quiet crackle of the fire.
Her mother found her voice first. “Harrowmere? Here?”
“In Mr Whitcombe’s study, ma’am.”
“Goodness,” her mother breathed. “The man wastes no time.”
Marianne’s pulse thudded painfully. “He’s come to explain,” she said, though she hardly believed it herself.
“Men like that don’t explain,” her mother murmured. “They decide.”
Her father appeared in the doorway then—his hair untidy, his expression unreadable, the faint scent of brandy clinging to him.
“He’s waiting,” Edmund Whitcombe said shortly. “Says he’s already applied for a special licence.”
Her mother gasped. “Alicence?”
He nodded once. “He says the matter can still be contained if we act at once. The gossip’s spreading faster than we thought.”
Marianne stared at him, unable to find her voice. “That’s—he can’t possibly—”
