“This will never do.” Her grandmother fussed, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “We will both look a fright if we are red-eyed.”
Clara bent and embraced her. “You will look as impressive as ever, Grandmamma.”
Impressive and powerful. A fitting end to a long and rich social life. For one last day the queen would reign. Then she would abdicate, and retire.
Adam sat across from his mother in the morning room. A footman had served coffee and cakes, but neither of them ate. His mother’s gaze remained on the text of the journal. He watched her reaction.
He had given it to her last night and watched then as well. He had seen her curiosity, and her anger. And her pain.
“And you will marry this family?” she had finally said.
“I will marry the woman I love. She happens to be the daughter of the man who wronged my father, yes.”
“You must love her very much.”
“With all of my heart and essence.”
“Then I will love her too, and forget this if I can.”
Although she set aside that journal last night, now she turned its pages again. He wondered if she would ever forget. He hoped so. Her arrival in England had been a joyous homecoming a week ago. Spending time with her without the shadow of the past had been glorious. She had taken to Clara at once, and Clara, charmed in part by how much he resembled his mother, had returned the affection. Now he wondered if the truth had ruined that good beginning.
She kept raising her eyebrows while she turned those pages.
“Are you reading that essay again?” he asked.
“No. I am reading the rest of it. What is this journal? Do you know it well?”
“It is a women’s publication. Its owner is a mystery. I confess I have never paid it much attention.”
“Lady Farnsworth writes for it. She has an essay here. It is very interesting. Quite strident and scolding. I would expect nothing else from Dorothy, of course. She always had strong opinions. This time, however, she is all but naming names, and her opinions have nothing to do with us and our own problem.” She looked up. “Someoneelseis not going to be pleased by this journal very soon.”
He had flipped through the rest of the pages, but had not noticed what they contained except in a general way. A few poems, some fashion plates, a history essay---the sorts so thing he supposed women enjoyed.
“Who will be displeased?” The notion that someone else would deflect some of the scandal with a second one appealed to him more than was proper.
“Dorothy has taken to task a lord, no less. Not you. One who lives in debauchery and decadence.”
“That applies to many lords.”
“This one is a duke, which limits the field considerably. Nor does she scold for what he does, but rather for what he does not do.” She smiled. “How like Dorothy, to list the sins in all their titillating detail, then say none of that matters. It garners one’s attention for her real point regarding whatdoesmatter.”
“What is her opinion on that?” He suspected he knew who this duke was.
“She writes that his real sin is not the women or the drinking or the other excesses, but in the way he squanders his power. She condemns him for ignoring the issues of the day and how his elevated position gives him the rare opportunity to improve the lot of his fellow men and women. In fact she titled the essaySlothful Decadence Among the Nobles.”
Adam pictured the slothful duke in question reading the essay. Clara had neglected to mention this when she handed over that copy of the journal. Perhaps she did not even know the essay was there.
“This duke is not named?”
“No. Perhaps she thinks all of you will see yourself in it.”
Possibly. The royal dukes fit the description, as did a few others. He supposed, considering his preoccupation these last years, Lady Farnsworth could have written about himself.
Only--- “The title makes mention of decadence, you say?”
“Specifically.”
One group of dukes had named themselves the Decadent Dukes, hadn’t they? That was not a secret. Brentworth could never be called slothful, so it was not about him. Langford would assume he was the object of the disapprobation, as indeed he most likely was.
