Page 2 of One Night of Scandal
Caldwell rolled his eyes. “Ignore him,” he said crisply. Then he shot Viola a look tinged with…humor? “Come, old man.” Caldwell dragged Sir Humphrey who wasn’t “old,” but probably only a decade more than Viola’s twenty-six years, into the private salon where more intimate conversations could be held.
Langford narrowed his eyes at them and snorted as they left. “Probably coming up with new ideas to cheat the working class.” He polished off his ale and stood.
Viola looked up at him. “Before you go, any races coming up I can mention in my column?”
Giles Langford was precisely the type of man the readers of theLadies’ Gazettewanted to read about. With his golden hair, bone-melting smile, and skill with the whip, he made ladies of all ages and status swoon. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t titled or wealthy. He was handsome, and he won every race he competed in. That was a man women dreamed about.
But not Viola. She didn’t dream of men at all.
“Stop by Rotten Row at dawn this Saturday if you want to see Adolphus Fernsby burst into tears,” Langford offered, his hazel eyes sparkling. Intongatherings, Fernsby was a nuisance at best. On the racetrack, he was even worse—infamous for self-important speeches about why he, his carriage, and his horses were better than everyone else’s.
“Whom will he be racing?” she asked.
Langford grinned. “Me.”
Viola couldn’t help but return his smile. She had no doubt most of the men in this tavern would be there to cheer on one of their own.
Viola lifted her tankard toward him. “Thank you for the tip.” Langford inclined his head before departing.
After chatting with a few other gentlemen while she nursed her ale, Viola eventually stood and went into the private salon. This was where she typically overheard gossip that might be of interest to the readers of theLadies’ Gazette.
Several of the tables in the salon were occupied by two, three, and four gentlemen. She swept her gaze over the room, mentally cataloging those present, most of whom were known to her. Gregory Pennington, another MP, came in behind her. He was a larger fellow—thick in the middle with what seemed to be a disappearing neck—and she had to step farther into the room to make way for him. She followed him with her eyes as he wound his way to Sir Humphrey and Caldwell’s table. The three men’s heads tipped toward the center as they began speaking in an animated fashion.
Two popular gentlemen, the Marquess of Raymore and the Viscount Keswick, sat at a table, laughing. Viola made her way in that direction and took up a position near the hearth so she could hear at least snippets of their conversation. They were discussing what was on the lips of many people at present: the new seditious meetings law.
“Careful there,” Keswick said with a laugh. “If someone says the wrong thing at a ball, it might be against the law!”
Both men chuckled as Viola sipped her beer. The law was horrible, but everyone was in a heightened state of distress after the riot in December and the attack on the Prince Regent in January—all the responsibility of radicals who met en masse and apparently plotted mayhem. Or so some believed.
Sir Humphrey and Caldwell stood and left, and Pennington transferred himself to Raymore and Keswick’s table. His gaze wandered, and a moment later, his small, dark eyes settled on Viola. “Tavistock, come join us!” he invited.
She looked toward Raymore and Keswick, since Pennington had sat down uninvited and was now encouraging her to join them. “If you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Keswick said, gesturing to the remaining open chair. “Good to see you, Tavistock. Dare we speak freely now that you’ve arrived, or shall we expect our utterances to appear in theLadies’ Gazette?” He laughed, and the other two gentlemen smiled in response.
“I am always kind,” Viola said, flourishing her hand. “Unless someone deserves to have their true nature revealed.” She narrowed her eyes at them and chuckled, which elicited more laughter from Keswick.
“Best not get on Tavistock’s bad side, eh, Pennington?” Keswick elbowed Pennington.
Pennington slid her an arrogant smile. “Bah, I’m not concerned about what he might write for awomen’spublication.”
Now Viola would definitely try to find something to write about him.
Pennington sniffed. “Far more important things happening than whose cravat needs more starch.” As ifthatwas what Viola was writing about. Except sometimes, it was.
“Then give me something more important to write about,” she dared, staring him in the eye.
Pennington shot a look toward Raymore, then curled his hand around his tankard. “All right. There’s a rumor that a certain MP has aligned himself with the radicals.”
Keswick waved a hand. “There are plenty of MPs who sympathize with that lot.”
“Sympathy is one thing, but when they take steps to aid them…” Pennington lifted a shoulder. “That’s something different entirely.”
Viola’s pulse tripped over itself. “Are you saying there’s an MP who helped them? How?”
“Didn’t you say it was a rumor?” Raymore asked. At Pennington’s nod, the marquess picked up his ale. “Then it’s probably best not to spread gossip.”
“But Tavistock here deals in gossip,” Keswick said, winking in Viola’s direction.
