Page 47 of Lady Beast's Bridegroom
The next day,the caricature campaign began again, with some of the old accusations and several new ones based on Miss Weatherall’s accusations. “For them to be out on the street by dawn,” John commented, when he called that afternoon, “they must have been on the presses before we met Belinda last night. This was planned, Arial.”
He wanted Arial to change her schedule so he could escort her to Greenhaven before traveling on to Deercroft, though the marquess’s family seat was on quite the other side of London, not far away from Three Oaks Manor.
Perhaps I can go to Deercroft instead of Greenmount and be close to Peter.Arial dismissed the thought. She could not impose herself, uninvited, on the new parents. “I am in no danger, John. They are only words. Those horrible people want to make me suffer, and I will not let them.”
And, she would not let John know that these particular words made her feel ill. Such venom. Such nasty minds. She wanted to tell Peter all about it. She restrained herself. He would want to be there to protect her and would worry about her when his focus should be on his sisters. She had no intention of easing her own mind at the expense of his.
She also didn’t mention to John, or tell Peter in her letters, that Mr. Richards’s chambers had been broken into. The solicitor arrived early that day to let her know. “They did not manage to break into the safe, Lady Ransome, but they did steal some documents from the shelves where we file draft copiesbefore destruction. I regret to inform you that your wills, yours and Lord Ransome’s, were among those stolen.”
She and Peter had made some minor amendments several weeks ago, to add small legacies for their new causes. She made a mental note that the wills would have to be revised again, to include the new baby, while assuring Mr. Richards that she was unconcerned.
“What possible use are our wills to a burglar? I daresay they merely picked them up in a bundle of other things.”
She thanked him for his visit, sent for Barlowe to show him out, and settled to making some last-minute alterations to the evening’s seating plan.
She welcomed her guests that evening with some trepidation. During the event, everyone politely ignored the caricatures and the scurrilous ballad sheet that had come out that afternoon. The food was delicious, the company pleasant, the conversation intriguing.
They moved from the dining room through to the drawing room, where she had set up card tables. In the conservatory beyond, there was room for a small dance floor, and she had hired a pianist to play for those interested in a more active form of entertainment. She, Clara, and John circulated through the rooms soliciting support for the retraining of ex-soldiers and were happy at the end of the evening to have sufficient promises to cover their first year of operations.
“Peter will be thrilled,” John said, as he took his leave. “I’ll leave it to you, Arial, to write to him and tell him how well we’ve done.”
“I will do that in the morning,” Arial promised. “Travel safely tomorrow, John. And please give my congratulations to Lord and Lady Deerhaven.”
“Safe travels to you, too, Arial. You and Clara look after yourselves. And watch out for that pit of vipers while you are still here in London.”
He kissed her hand and allowed Barlowe to show him out.
Chapter Twenty-One
The success ofthe dinner party lulled Arial into believing the storm had passed. She was disabused of the notion the very next day, when she and Clara went to an afternoon musicale. It was back again, and worse than when she was on Peter’s arm—the sudden buzz of conversation when she entered, the number of people who turned their back and pretended they did not see her, the nasty remarks as she passed, whispered just loud enough for her to hear.
Head high, she greeted her hostess and did her best to ignore those who were determined to show their contempt. She should not have come. None of her particular friends were present. Only her pride kept her there, and once the musical selections were over, she made her excuses, and left.
There were a group of people outside her front door when the carriage drew up. They crowded up behind her footman as he opened the carriage door and put down the steps. At the head of them was a man with an open journal and a pencil, who shouted at her, “Arthur Scammell fromThe Teatime Tattler, Lady Ransome. The people have some questions. How do you feel about the caricatures of you?”
The footman elbowed Mr. Scammell in the chest, so that he stumbled backwards. Barlowe must have been watching, for John’s two ex-soldiers and several other footmen hurried downthe steps from the front door, linking arms into two rows to make a path for her to walk through.
Mr. Scammell had picked himself up, and was leaning between the footmen, moving from one shoulder to another, shouting questions. “What do you look like without the mask? Is it true you are having an affair with Captain Forsythe? Is it true that Lord Ransome found you in an asylum and married you for your money?”
He was on her blind side, so she could not see him without turning her head. Nor did she see the screeching woman who threw herself against the protective line and tried to snatch her mask. A gasp from Clara made her turn around just in time to see Clara hit the woman’s hand with her reticule. Others were heckling and jeering, and a group of urchins threw rotten fruit with little accuracy and great delight.
She hurried up the steps with Clara and Nancy at her heels, stopped in the doorway to usher them inside, and turned to take a final look at the mob just in time to see an egg flying directly towards her face. Before she could duck, a silver salver appeared in front of her. The egg crashed against it, breaking with a crunching sound. Barlowe shook off the salver, scattering droplets of raw egg across those crowded closest.
Arial stepped back, and Barlowe shut the door on the faces of the crowd.
“The men?” she asked.
“One has gone for the constable, my lady. Two will stand guard outside the door. The rest have been told to go around the house and check for intruders in the garden and the mews before coming in through the kitchen.”
She took a deep breath for calm and smiled at him. “Thank you, Barlowe. You seem to have everything under control.”
“You need a nice cup of tea,” Clara observed.
Arial needed her husband. And she needed this persecution to end.
Once again, Sergeant Miller had been absent for the invasion. “He has been sneaking off, again, though Lord Ransome warned him not to,” Nancy said. “He is courting, my lady, and very secretive about it, too. But he says she is a lady!”
Arial did not go out the next day, but she did readThe Teatime Tattler. To her surprise, Mr. Scammell had written rather a sympathetic article. He described her courage under fire and the loyalty of her servants. He described “the graceful and dignified form of Lady R., whom some believe to be the Lady Beast recently lampooned by less reputable purveyors of news than this fine magazine.”
