furniture. I had begun using the front room as an office, where I could meet friends in private, or help those who had begun coming to me with problems they felt they could not take to the magistrates.
I’d also kept my bed, which would be nothing but a bare mattress. So I was surprised, when I entered the bedchamber, to see it spread with quilts and occupied by Marianne Simmons.
She sat with her back against the headboard, propped against a pillow, her blond curls flowing loosely to her dressing gown. A small ivory snuffbox was open on the bed next to her, and she had a glass of ruby port in her hand. Newspapers were strewn across the covers, from the clean pages of the Times to the ink-smeared single sheets of more dubious publications.
Marianne was crying. She’d swiped at her tears with ink-stained fingers, resulting in black dappled cheeks.
I stopped when I saw her, my hand on the door handle. “What the devil?” I exclaimed.
“Oh, hello, Lacey,” Marianne said, as though me finding her reclining in my bed was of no consequence. She sniffled, swiped one hand across her eyes, and took a long drink of port.
“Why are you here?” I asked, then softened my tone as she turned wet blue eyes up to me. “And what on earth is the matter?”
Marianne shoved a paper across the covers. “ That is the matter. I’m such a bloody little fool.”
I eased myself to the edge of the bed, my sore leg happy with me for resting it, and reached for the paper. The sheet contained a drawing of Lucius Grenville in profile, exaggerating his dark eyes, sleek dark hair, knotted cravat, and high collar points. Facing him, also in profile, was a woman with frizzy black curls, a pointed nose, a long neck, and diamonds at her throat.
The caption read: Signora C— , a talented and very lucky soprano, native of Venice, has caught the eye of our own Mr. G—. She now wears jewels from his household. Can he be thinking of handing her the plate?
Chapter Six
“Ah,” I said.
For the past few weeks, Grenville had begun squiring about an opera singer called Paola Carlotti, the newest sensation to reach the Covent Garden stage. The two were well matched in looks, and newspapers had begun depicting them together. The handsomest pair in Mayfair , they’d been labeled.
Grenville had scarcely spoken to me of Signora Carlotti; in fact, he’d scarcely spoken to me about much in the last weeks, except arrangements regarding the duel.
He and Marianne, with whom Grenville had been carrying out an affaire de couer since May last, had begun a coolness earlier this winter, after the incidents surrounding Drury Lane at New Year’s. Marianne had expressed the wish not to see him anymore, and Grenville had complied. She’d retired to Berkshire for a time, and I hadn’t known until walking in here this evening that she’d returned.
Grenville, the most famous dandy in all of Britain, now that Mr. Brummell had removed himself to France, was not one to rush after a woman, pleading for her forgiveness. Nor would he flee to his country estate to sulk. Indeed, his reputation forbade such things.
So he’d taken up with Signora Carlotti, giving the newspapers much enjoyment. Signora Carlotti, already famous for her voice on the Continent, was now gaining great repute in London. I’d heard her, and I agreed with the assessment that she was brilliant.
Handing her the plate was the journalist’s speculation that Grenville meant to marry her. Many families passed part of their wealth down in the form of heavy silver dinner services that retained their value through the years. A woman “getting her hands on the plate,” meant getting her hands on the family’s money, usually through marriage.
“This is trash, Marianne,” I said, shoving the papers aside. “You cannot credit everything you read in a scandal sheet.”
Marianne sniffled again, much liquid in her nose. She swiped it away with her hand, and I yanked out a large handkerchief and
I’d also kept my bed, which would be nothing but a bare mattress. So I was surprised, when I entered the bedchamber, to see it spread with quilts and occupied by Marianne Simmons.
She sat with her back against the headboard, propped against a pillow, her blond curls flowing loosely to her dressing gown. A small ivory snuffbox was open on the bed next to her, and she had a glass of ruby port in her hand. Newspapers were strewn across the covers, from the clean pages of the Times to the ink-smeared single sheets of more dubious publications.
Marianne was crying. She’d swiped at her tears with ink-stained fingers, resulting in black dappled cheeks.
I stopped when I saw her, my hand on the door handle. “What the devil?” I exclaimed.
“Oh, hello, Lacey,” Marianne said, as though me finding her reclining in my bed was of no consequence. She sniffled, swiped one hand across her eyes, and took a long drink of port.
“Why are you here?” I asked, then softened my tone as she turned wet blue eyes up to me. “And what on earth is the matter?”
Marianne shoved a paper across the covers. “ That is the matter. I’m such a bloody little fool.”
I eased myself to the edge of the bed, my sore leg happy with me for resting it, and reached for the paper. The sheet contained a drawing of Lucius Grenville in profile, exaggerating his dark eyes, sleek dark hair, knotted cravat, and high collar points. Facing him, also in profile, was a woman with frizzy black curls, a pointed nose, a long neck, and diamonds at her throat.
The caption read: Signora C— , a talented and very lucky soprano, native of Venice, has caught the eye of our own Mr. G—. She now wears jewels from his household. Can he be thinking of handing her the plate?
Chapter Six
“Ah,” I said.
For the past few weeks, Grenville had begun squiring about an opera singer called Paola Carlotti, the newest sensation to reach the Covent Garden stage. The two were well matched in looks, and newspapers had begun depicting them together. The handsomest pair in Mayfair , they’d been labeled.
Grenville had scarcely spoken to me of Signora Carlotti; in fact, he’d scarcely spoken to me about much in the last weeks, except arrangements regarding the duel.
He and Marianne, with whom Grenville had been carrying out an affaire de couer since May last, had begun a coolness earlier this winter, after the incidents surrounding Drury Lane at New Year’s. Marianne had expressed the wish not to see him anymore, and Grenville had complied. She’d retired to Berkshire for a time, and I hadn’t known until walking in here this evening that she’d returned.
Grenville, the most famous dandy in all of Britain, now that Mr. Brummell had removed himself to France, was not one to rush after a woman, pleading for her forgiveness. Nor would he flee to his country estate to sulk. Indeed, his reputation forbade such things.
So he’d taken up with Signora Carlotti, giving the newspapers much enjoyment. Signora Carlotti, already famous for her voice on the Continent, was now gaining great repute in London. I’d heard her, and I agreed with the assessment that she was brilliant.
Handing her the plate was the journalist’s speculation that Grenville meant to marry her. Many families passed part of their wealth down in the form of heavy silver dinner services that retained their value through the years. A woman “getting her hands on the plate,” meant getting her hands on the family’s money, usually through marriage.
“This is trash, Marianne,” I said, shoving the papers aside. “You cannot credit everything you read in a scandal sheet.”
Marianne sniffled again, much liquid in her nose. She swiped it away with her hand, and I yanked out a large handkerchief and
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