Page 7 of Not his Marchioness
Charlotte gulped. The truth was, she hadn’t thought that far ahead. She had only wanted to destroy her reputation enough to dissuade Lord Emery. But yes, Evelyn was right. Who would want to marry her now?
However, she was not going to worry about that just yet. For the time being, she was determined to enjoy her success.
“Evelyn, the future will come and bring with it what it will. Spare me your hand-wringing. Come, we’ll scandalize the household further by daring to drink hot chocolate before noon.”
Her sister exchanged a glance with Marianne, but neither protested. Instead, the three of them went down the stairs, Charlotte with her head held high and her shoulders rolled back. Yet, as they walked, she caught the glances of the footman and the maid. They were trying their best not to stare at her.
Then, they passed the front door on the way to the breakfast room. She spotted a gaggle of men outside, pointing at the house, newspapers in their hands.
Her breath caught. Outside, the street murmured her name like a warning.
Had she taken things too far? Had she, in her quest to free herself, created a prison from which she would never escape?
Rhys bolted from the coffee house on Bond Street as though Napoleon himself was nipping at his coat. He pulled his top hat further over his brow and turned up the collar of his coat.
This had been most unpleasant.
He was accustomed to scandal—had courted it, even. His reputation had always been more tattered cravat than pristine cravat pin. However, he had never been quite so maligned because of it.
The moment he had stepped into the coffee house, he had drawn stares and whispers. And once he sat down, the waiter eyed him with raised eyebrows as though he were some sort of curiosity.
The reason soon became clear.
The Tatler, one of London’s most notorious scandal sheets, had written about him again. On the front page, no less.
Ravenscar Set to Ruin Prince Regent’s Cousin?the headline screamed.
He hadn’t even been aware that the Prince Regent had a cousin. It wasn’t as though he was on a first-name basis with the man or strolled into Carlton House whenever he pleased.
Alas, the writer hadn’t cared for facts. Instead, they wrote about supposed clandestine meetings on palace grounds between him and this cousin, apparently a Lady Gwendolyn.
It was ridiculous. At first, he’d assumed nobody would believe it. But by the time he’d drained half his coffee, he’d been proven wrong. Everyone was whispering about him, and no one had come up to greet him. Which, in itself, was unusual.
In the end, the weight of their stares had proved more suffocating than smoke.
He turned onto Bond Street, his jaw set, his strides brisk with purpose. He had received a message from his solicitor thatmorning requesting his presence at his offices at his earliest convenience.
Why he had been summoned so early, he didn’t know. But he had never been one to walk away from duty, especially when it insisted on finding him everywhere he turned.
Entering the offices, he knocked once, and upon being called in, he stepped through the door and dropped into a chair.
Mr. Beale, an old gentleman with a rather impressive mustache that reached his chin and grey hair shaggier than it ought to be, looked up from his desk.
“My Lord. How kind of you to join me.”
“The invitation you sent brooked no argument,” Rhys said coolly. “Now, what is the matter? Do not tell me I’ve been summoned on account of that absurd headline.”
“The one proclaiming you’re in the process of ruining some distant relation of the Prince Regent? No, you are not.” Mr. Beale steepled his hands. “However, I will say that the two matters are related. The story may not be true, but we know that scandal has a way of finding and attaching itself to you.”
Rhys shrugged. “But I didn’t think my personal life mattered in the past.”
“No, because no one in Society cares what the second son does. But you are no longer a second son. And you are no longer merely an heir. You are a marquess. You are a member of the House of Lords. A certain level of decorum is required.”
Rhys scoffed. “Decorum? The gentlemen in the House of Lords have carte blanche and accounts in every gambling hall in London.”
“Yes,” Mr. Beale acknowledged. “But it’s not common knowledge. It is not shared across the realm. They are discreet. Their actions may be known among their peers, but not the public.”
“You know of them, and you are no peer,” Rhys pointed out.
