The other said, “Everyone knows the Brazen Belle.”
“I have been abroad.” Tessa tried not to sound as indignant as she felt.
“She writesThe Rake Review,” the first woman said. “A scandal sheet about?—”
“Rakes?” Tessa guessed.
The other woman nodded.
“And Mr. Ives,” Tessa asked, “has been lately discussed in this publication?”
The first woman said slowly, carefully, “She doesn’t name him exactly. She never does. But we all know anyway. And June’s rake is Mr. R. I.”
The first woman tapped her chin. “It could be Richard Islington.”
“Oh, it might. That makes sense, too.”
“Islington?” Tessa asked.
“Another theatre owner.”
“Ah.” Things began to make more sense now. “It must be Islington. Mr. Ives is no rake. He’s hardworking and steadfast. And sweet and…”
The women had slipped into heavy silence. They exchanged a look.
One of them pushed a bit of paper toward her. “Decide for yourself.”
Tessa took the paper and read it.
Naughty hands… loudmouthed lothario… bared skin… Remmy?
Tessa shoved the paper back at them. “This isnotMr. Ives.”
Another look shared, then a pointed one at Remmy, at the two buxom women draped across him.
Curse those women. Tessa knew well what it looked like, but there had to be a reason for them other than… Other than…
“Mr. Ives is not a rake!” Tessa insisted. Her voice rose on a wave of irritation that had been pinching her since she’d discovered how many moles Brawly’s backside possessed. First that bit of information, then she’d learned she was soon to lose her position, then the suggestion of marriage, then her father and—now she was trembling—her mother, and now this! Her friend, the sweetest man in the world, maligned by that… that brazen belle! “He cannot be the man the Brazen Belle wrote of!” She was speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear, collecting startled looks and worried stares, a few chuckles, whispers behind fans. “He is nothing like the Belle paints.”
“Miss King.” Her name wrapped up in a deep voice, rich and warm as chocolate, that brushed warm across the skin of her neck. She knew that voice well.
She turned. “Do you hear what they are saying about you, Mr. Ives?”
“I do indeed.” His usually mobile mouth was pinched into a thin line.
“I won’t let them. Do not worry.” She cleared her throat, raised her voice even higher. “Mr. Remington Ives?—”
“Tessa,” Remmy grumbled.
“—is not?—”
“Tessa, stop,” he growled.
“—a rake!”
“Good God,” he groaned.
But she didn’t stop. Why in heavens would he want her to? “And I will take exception to anyone who says otherwise. I’ve read the June article, and I assure you, it cannot be about Mr. Iv—ack!”
