Page 4 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
“You’re a welcome sight.” He clapped the younger man on the back, pulled out a chair, and signaled to the servant. A baron’s younger son, Morley had the handsome looks and cheerful manners that gave him entrée to society. He was just the man Graeme needed to talk to: a wag, good at gleaning gossip and willing to share it.
Morley put up his hands. “’Fraid I can’t join you tonight. Just came over on the packet. I ran into those fellows and shared a coach. Heading up to town with them. But damn if I’m not happy to see you.”
“I’ve just arrived myself. Making my way to Chilcombe House tomorrow.” Graeme leaned in and smiled. Morley was a good enough friend that there was no need to beat around the bush. “Is there anything I should know before I arrive there?”
“Well.” Morley’s eyes glittered and he laughed. “I may be behind on the news, but I did hear that Lady Chilcombe has come out of mourning with fanfare.” He cocked his head, eyes filled with mischief. “She christened her return to society with a grand ball at Chilcombe House.”
“She’s at Chilcombe House?”
Morley nodded.
A fluttering of awareness quickened his heart, and his fingers thrummed the table. He’d see her as soon as tomorrow afternoon.
Blythe as a merry-making widow. For the short time he was here, he’d have to enter society. If she was well established in the ton, perhaps she could ease his path there.
Perhaps she could ease more than his path with the ton.
The longing he felt… it was only to satisfy his curiosity before sending her off to… to somewhere.
“She’s only just recently returned to town,” Morley said. “Before that… well, she was away for some months, but no one quite knows where.” At Graeme’s frown, he held up his hands defensively. “Not speaking ill of her, but?—”
The barmaid’s appearance interrupted Morley’s next thought. Still standing, he accepted the tankard.
“But… you’re brimful of, er, intelligence?” Graeme raised his drink, saluting his friend. Good intelligence gathering allowed a man to gossip, and gossip often held nuggets of truth. Sometimes boulders.
“Not quite brimful…” Morley glanced around and lowered his voice. “It pays to keep my ear to the ground. I’ve had to make my own way after Father died, you know, and I’ve been dabbling as an inquiry agent. I’ll see if I can learn anything else. Look for me at White’s tomorrow afternoon. Or better yet—I’ll call on you and escort you to the club myself.”
Morley glanced back at his friends, and Graeme had a sudden thought. He’d never spent much time in London but he’d heard that gossip there spread quickly.
“Do me a favor, Morley,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone I’m back.”
Morley blinked, his lips quirking. “Ah. A surprise arrival. I’ll tell these fellows you’re a client.”
Graeme raised an eyebrow. “We’ll talk tomorrow then.”
Chapter Two
Blythe Blatchfield, widowed Countess of Chilcombe, ought to be grateful. Days earlier, just as dawn broke over London, she’d sent the last guest home from the mad crush of a ball she’d held here. Her drawing room had been filled with callers ever since.
The ball had been her official come out after her year of mourning, an event she’d paid for herself out of the pin money she’d squirreled away for years. She’d planned a smallish affair for guests like her friend Lady Loughton, whose daughter was having her first season. The other invitees had included members of the ton who hadn’t cut her entirely, as well those who hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do so.
The gathering had mushroomed beyond her wildest imaginings.
To her surprise, notes of acceptance had poured in, as well as requests for invitations. The ton was eager to see the scandalous countess who’d disappeared into the countryside with her husband and his disreputable friends.
Despite her murky past, despite the watered down ratafia and skimpy supper on offer, her carefully planned reappearance in society was a raging success. Those with a nose for more scandal were rewarded by the scene of a duke insulting Lady Loughton’s daughter.
Many of the best of London attended. She was gratified, even as she hoped they wouldn’t lay the blame for the young duke’s misbehavior on the hostess. She needed to curry the favor of the beau monde if she was to confront a scheming marquess. She needed to find her place in society, and the higher the place, the better.
If only her morning callers represented the best of the ton. Unfortunately, the most dedicated ones were inveterate gossips like Mrs. Netley and her daughter, as well as a scattering of brash young bucks.
It wasn’t merely tittle-tattle about the misbehaving duke they wanted. Her late husband’s sordid life and death, and the old rumors about the Chilcombes’ marital arrangements, still had gossips probing. The lusty gentlemen enjoyed gossip too but were mainly here to test the new widow’s virtue.
The news of Diddenton’s claims of a new will disinheriting her added to the titillation, despite the marquess’s struggle to produce a credible document. A document she prayed he would never find.
The impasse would end, somehow, when Graeme Blatchfield arrived in England. The court would either tell the marquess to find another widow to impoverish, or Blythe would be cast out of her home. If that happened, her fight would be with the new Earl of Chilcombe to honor the terms of his late cousin’s settlement agreement. And fight, she would.
A buckskin clad leg brushed her skirts, making her skin crawl. The loathsome man who’d seated himself next to her, Lord Vernon Falfield, was her late husband’s bosom friend and the fourth son of the scheming marquess. He’d been a participant in the goings-on at Risley Manor. He was also very likely the source of the gossip about her at White’s, Boodle’s, and Brooks’s.
