Page 23 of One Night of Scandal (Fairleigh Sisters #2)

Was it possible I had misjudged him so badly?

“DID YOU GET IT? DID YOU GET IT? OH, please tell me you got it!”

Elizabeth Bly exclaimed, bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement as her best friend came running out the glass-fronted door of Minerva Press’s bookshop.

“By Jove, I got it!”

Caro Brockway crowed, whipping the thin leather-bound volume out from under her cloak. The girl’s breath escaped in white puffs on the frigid air.

Before she could reach Elizabeth, a hulking footman garbed in navy livery stepped into her path.

“I’ll give you three pounds for that book, miss.”

Caro stumbled to a halt, clearly taken aback.

“But I only paid half a guinea for it.”

“I’ll make it five, then.”

The man stole a desperate look at the long line of carriages parked just behind them.

The elegant carriages and public hacks were lined up all the way to Gracechurch Street.

Swaddled in furs and muffs, their occupants were willing to shiver in the cold for hours, all in the hope of obtaining the third volume of London’s latest literary sensation, Lord Death’s Bride.

“Please, miss, take pity on me,”

the man begged.

“You heard what happened to Lady Dryden’s footman, didn’t you?”

The girls exchanged a wide-eyed look.

All of London had heard what had happened to Lady Dryden’s footman.

He had dared to return to the countess’s carriage empty-handed only to sheepishly confess that he’d let the last available copy of Volume Two of Lord Death’s Bride slip through his fingers and into Lady Featherwick’s grasping paws.

Some said the countess’s outraged shriek was heard all the way to Aldgate.

She had beat the poor fellow about the head with her parasol, then stuck her nose in the air and commanded her coachman to drive on without him.

The footman had chased the carriage for ten blocks, begging for her forgiveness, before finally succumbing to exhaustion and falling face-first into a pile of fresh horse manure.

Rumor had it that he was now seeking employment on the docks.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I can’t help you.”

Clutching the book to her heart, Caro veered around him and backed toward Elizabeth.

“I’ve been waiting in line since dawn and I promised my mother I’d bring the book straight home. She’s going to read it to the entire family after supper tonight. They’ve all been dying to know what happens after the noble duke realizes his new bride has betrayed his trust.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

“I can’t believe what a ninny she’s turned out to be.”

The girl clasped her hands beneath her chin, a dreamy expression softening her features.

“Why, I would have realized from the beginning that such a kind, generous, and incredibly handsome man would never hurt any woman, especially his wife.”

The footman began to stalk Caro, his countenance taking on a more menacing aspect. He stretched out one white-gloved hand.

“Come on, gel. It won’t kill you to hand it over. Five pounds must be a fortune to a common chit like you.”

“Run, Caro, run!”

Elizabeth shrieked, grabbing her friend’s hand and tugging her out of his reach.

As the two girls sped away, their cloaks flapping behind them, the footman tore off his top hat and shouted.

“Seven pounds! I’ll give you seven pounds!”

At bookshops and lending libraries all over London, the same drama was being replayed.

The author had insisted that an abridged version be published in weekly installments in the periodicals for those who couldn’t afford bound books.

The second a new edition appeared, the milling crowds would rush the street vendors, snatching and grabbing until the flimsy pamphlets came apart in their grimy hands.

Down on the docks where the penny broadsides were sold, even those who couldn’t read wept over crude sketches of a noblewoman on her knees begging for her husband’s forgiveness as he turned his sad face away from her and pointed toward the door.

The novel’s thinly disguised characters provided endless hours of speculation and delight among the ton.

They could hardly believe that one of their own would lower themselves to pen such a thrilling and touching tale.

It was the greatest literary scandal London had known since a married Percy Bysshe Shelley had eloped to France with sixteen-year-old Mary Godwin over a decade before.

When it was announced that the duke of Devonbrooke and Minerva Press would be jointly hosting a ball in the author’s honor at Devonbrooke House, they set out to beg, borrow, or steal an invitation.

The families who had retired to their country estates for the winter ordered their footman to hitch up their teams and headed back to the city.

None of them were willing to miss the social coup of the year or the chance to ogle the notorious bride of Lord Death himself.

As Lottie approached the marble steps that spilled down from the gallery into the vast ballroom of Devonbrooke House, she felt more nervous than notorious.

A crush of guests milled around the ballroom below, eagerly awaiting her arrival.

A string quartet was seated in the corner, their bows poised over their instruments as they awaited the signal to strike up the first waltz.

Sterling and Laura stood at the foot of the stairs, looking even more uneasy than she felt, while George ducked through the crowd with his head down, trying to elude a persistent Harriet.

Lottie had dreamed of such a moment her entire life, yet now that it had arrived, she felt curiously empty inside.

She touched a hand to her upswept curls, wondering if any of their guests would recognize the girl who had once been known as the Hertfordshire Hellion.

With Laura and Diana’s help, she’d chosen a gown of emerald green velvet that rode slightly off of her creamy shoulders.

A matching choker encircled her slender throat.

Shimmering gold banding edged the puffed sleeves and square-cut bodice of the gown.

The waist was cut low, hugging the natural curves of her body.

The strand of pearls woven through her hair added a touch of elegance to the demure ensemble, as did the whisper of lace peeping through a side slit in the skirt.

Addison was standing at rigid attention at the top of the stairs.

The butler gave her a nearly imperceptible wink before clearing his throat and loudly intoning.

“The Most Honorable Carlotta Oakleigh, the marchioness of Oakleigh.”

An animated murmur swept through the ballroom as all eyes turned to the stairs. Her fingertips grazing the iron balustrade, Lottie slowly descended, a gracious smile fixed on her lips.

Sterling was waiting for her at the foot of the steps. Lottie felt a wistful pang in her heart as she imagined Hayden standing there instead, his green eyes shining with pride.

Her brother-in-law offered her his arm. As she took it, Laura signaled the musicians. They launched into a rousing Viennese waltz and Lottie and Sterling began to glide around the floor.

“No word from Townsend yet?”

Sterling asked as several other couples joined the dance, swirling around them in a riot of colors and chatter.

“Not even a whisper. I’m beginning to think Hayden must have tossed him off the cliff along with my book.”

Sterling scowled.

“Better him than you.”

When the first waltz ended, he handed her off to a beaming Mr. Beale. The kindly publisher was only too eager to be seen squiring about Minerva Press’s brightest new literary light. The dazzling success of her novel had enriched both his coffers and his reputation. Lottie clutched one of his ink-stained hands, learning quickly that he was a much better publisher than he was a dancer.

“I believe we can pronounce the night a triumph, my lady,”

he said, peering over the top of his spectacles at the whirl of excitement.

“just as we can the seventh printing of Volume Three of your book.”

He was blissfully oblivious to the sly glances Lottie was receiving from behind their guests’ fans and quizzing glasses. It wasn’t admiration she saw in their eyes, but rabid curiosity and thinly veiled pity. Smiling at Mr. Beale, she held her head high. If Hayden could endure society’s censure for over four years, surely she could survive it for one night.

Occupied with keeping her delicate slippers out from under the publisher’s rather cumbersome feet, she didn’t realize a marked hush had fallen over the crowd until the music ground to an off-key halt.

Addison’s voice rang out in the sudden silence, lacking its usual clipped cadence.

“The Most Honorable Hayden St. Clair, the marquess of Oakleigh.”

As a stunned gasp traveled through the crowd, Lottie whirled around to find her husband standing at the top of the stairs.