Chapter Nineteen

" D ammit!" Matthew slammed the late-afternoon edition of The Times onto his dining room table with such force his teacup clattered sideways in its saucer, spilling the contents. Throwing his napkin atop the mess to blot the worst of it, he rose to his feet and was halfway to the door when he stopped.

What could he do about the vicious slander? It was printed. The damage was done! Thrashing Varley within an inch of his life or confronting his shrew of a wife would do no good.

He was supposed to meet Quinn and their friends at Café de l'Europe next to the Haymarket Theatre later that evening. When he did, he would face a group of men who had all read an exaggerated tale of what Lord and Lady Varley happened upon at Syon Park. In the interim of a week, they had embellished it beyond all recognition. One would think he and Purity had been discovered naked as needles writhing on the grass. Their engagement would be tainted.

Worse, it would distress Purity no end. Matthew's fury was growing by the minute.

He couldn't simply sit still and stew for hours. Changing swiftly, he headed to the pugilist's club and worked his body and his anger out upon a few hapless sparring partners. No facers were allowed, but each time he planted a punch to the other man's gut, he imagined Varley was the recipient.

Finally, aching and sweaty, he went home to soak in a tub and get ready for his celebratory engagement dinner. And if any of the other gentlemen brought up The Times , he would smile and tell them to go to hell.

But he wanted to speak with Quinn alone first. Across Mayfair at his friend's residence on Cavendish Square, he rapped on the door impatiently.

"Lord Quinn will be with you shortly, my lord," the butler said.

Luckily, it was not too early to start drinking. No one would have blamed him for adopting the standards of a dedicated debauchee and drinking directly after reading the tattle hours ago, and not stopping.

Matthew wasn't one of those. Nonetheless, his reputation, careless actions, and poor judgment had got him deep in the suds. And even though he and Purity had been partaking of a relatively tame act compared to some things he'd done in a garden, his fiancée was going to pay for his previous behavior. She would be held up as yet another in a long line, which simply wasn't the case.

"A glass of your employer's claret, please," he asked Quinn's butler before the man disappeared to tell him he was waiting.

Ten minutes later, glass in hand, Matthew was still brooding over having made an enemy of Lady Varley, while wondering what he'd ever done to harm her husband.

"Here I am," Quinn announced unnecessarily as he entered, already holding his own glass of wine in one hand and a full decanter in the other. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I assume I look presentable for having hurried with my toilette."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "I could not give a fig how you look. Did you see the paper today?"

"I did, which is why I'll forgive you for coming over uninvited and demanding my best claret."

Matthew wasn't in the mood for his friend's teasing, but since he was about to be in a group, he would need to change his disposition.

"Do you know, I think nothing would have ever shown up in The Times if I hadn't rebuffed Lady Varley. She paid me a visit recently."

"Do tell," Quinn said. "The former Lady Tupmoure sought you out at home, did she?"

Matthew nodded. "I told her I wasn't interested in taking up with her."

Quinn winced. "Why would you be? Purity is a true diamond, and Lady Varley is more like a colorful paste gem. Regardless, women don't like to hear the truth. If I were you, I would have mixed giblets with her, clothing on if you were in a hurry, and sent her on her way with a smile."

"I didn't want her, clothing on or off."

"You cannot be the Fox," Quinn said.

"I am no longer the Fox," Matthew agreed. "I am an engaged man, and damn lucky to boot having made an agreement with Lord Diamond. This type of public cackle could certainly sour a father on giving away his daughter. I can only hope it hasn't sconced the engagement."

"Lord Diamond knew whom he was accepting as his son-in-law. He doesn't seem the type to get ruffled."

Matthew hoped Quinn was correct, but his anger still swirled inside.

"The next time I see Varley, I am going to call him out."

"No," Quinn said, pouring them both another glass, "you're not. I imagine you'd name me as your second, and I hate the sight of blood. Besides, you could be killed or kill the man. How will either help? You cannot leave your lady alone to face any scorn that may come from the titillating column while you go to meet your maker or to languish at Newgate."

Quinn was right, but that didn't stop Matthew from imagining what he might do the next time he spotted his sandy-haired nemesis. Surely, no one would blame him for landing a nosegay or even a full floorer.

"Didn't you have something to do with Varley's engagement splintering so fabulously a week before he was to wed the fortune of his dreams?"

Quinn's words filtered into Matthew's savage thoughts.

"I did not! As I understand it, the fortune-in-question caught him enjoying himself more than any man should in a cupboard. What has that to do with me?"

"I am not friends with Varley, you understand," Quinn said, "but when you went to the Continent, he was at the club telling everyone how you had caused his ruin. He was drunk as David's sow, sucking the monkey for a fortnight straight before he sobered up. Most of us assumed you'd done your usual prank and taken the fun out of his wedding night before he could get the bride to bed."

Matthew heard this with growing horror. "None of that is right. I did no such thing. I can barely recall Varley's blasted fiancée."

"Lady Penelope Cadmium. My sister knows her."

"Well, bully for your sister, but I've never laid eyes on this Cadmium woman. Why would Varley blame me?"

Drinking the wine too quickly, he choked and swore loudly. Again, Varley's fault!

"Without your biting off my head," Quinn said, "I must remind you that you can't blame anyone for believing Varley and thinking you had something to do with it. After all, you do have a way of mucking up other men's happiness, including mine."

The anger fizzled out of Matthew like a doused candle.

"Not you, too." But he had an inkling he knew what his friend was talking about. They'd celebrated leaving Cambridge with a rather boisterous carousing. It might have lasted a week. Quinn had introduced him to the lady he was favoring at the time, and somehow, by week's end, Matthew ended up in her boudoir, exhilarated by liquor, by life, and by living in the greatest city in the world. His celebration entailed a feather bed jig with his friend's love interest.

Quinn had shrugged it off with a quip about not seeing her again as he didn't fancy a buttered bun .

"Dammit, man," Matthew said. "I barely remember her, and I didn't think you cared that much."

Quinn's eyes darkened as he held up his glass of wine and stared into its ruby depths.

"I don't now, but back then, I did. And strangely, I still remember her. She had a sweet smile and a dusting of freckles. She married a soldier and lives in Birmingham."

Then he shook his head. "If I had cared greatly, if you had broken me, then what? You couldn't undo what you did."

Matthew stared. Lately, more than once, he was starting to think he'd taken his happy bachelor life to unwise extremes.

"Any woman who would pick me over you was a terrible judge of character and not worth your sparing her another thought, sweet smile or not. She simply wasn't worthy of you. In fact, you might be thankful I sussed out her true nature since she was more than willing to let me tup her."

Quinn didn't appear appeased. "Is that how you justify it? Or is that your apology?"

"Neither. This is my apology." Matthew rose to his feet. "I'm sorry I wapped her. I was stupid and selfish. You are my friend, and I let my prick get in the way of honor."

He reached out his hand across the space between them, willing Quinn to take it. After a moment, he did. They shook, and Matthew regained his chair, feeling better about the day.

Then Quinn smiled.

"It must be a pretty big prick because it has gotten in your way a lot."

"If I have to go around and apologize to every man I've cuckolded, then I won't have time for anything else." Matthew shook his head. "That was a joke and a gross overstatement. I swear, most of the females in my life have been unattached."

"If you say so."

Matthew thought it was true. Hoped it was true.

"Do you think Varley told that tawdry tale to The Times ?" Quinn asked.

"It makes sense if he holds a grudge over the loss of his fiancée, although I cannot imagine why he holds me in any way accountable."

Quinn drained his glass. "Maybe Lady Varley tattled to the newspaper."

Matthew shrugged. "Maybe." Suddenly he felt weary. "I hope I haven't left it too late to become respectable."

"I thought it would be the reign of Queen Dick before you made yourself all plummy."

Matthew grinned at his friend's sarcasm, then rose to his feet. His stomach was grumbling, and he was glad they were going for a good meal.

"You made me see things a little differently, and for that, I am grateful. Tomorrow, I had best go to that daunting Diamond residence and talk to my fiancée. I hope things are still plummy there, too."

"I say you might still want to think about appeasing Lady Varley," Quinn said. "She might have some more wicked tricks down her décolletage if you don't."

That erased the smile from Matthew's face.

"I am glad I came over and disturbed your toilette, although your cravat could use another try." Knowing his friend liked a level of perfection in his appearance, it was the best way to annoy him.

As expected, Quinn went to the round mirror behind a wall sconce and tried to examine his neckcloth, while Matthew strode to the door.

"Come along, I was speaking in jest. But perhaps your valet is in need of spectacles. I won't even make mention of the rat's nest he made of your hair until we're in the carriage."

Purity was going for a walk. She imagined it would feel good to go into one of London's boxing clubs and use her fists on someone. She'd never had that inclination before, but The Times had barely concealed her identity in the paper the day before.

A ‘Pure' sparkling gem of a lady was getting her lips polished by a certain Foxy gent of late at the river's edge. This editor has been told the lady in question used a Syon Park gala to get herself a green gown when before it was a pretty yellow. Mayhap to protect it from further damage, she tossed it upon a nearby hedge. Mayhap to protect her, the banns will soon be read.

Ugh! It was disgusting. And at no time had her day dress left her person and, most assuredly, had never been tossed onto any shrubbery.

With her gloved hands fisted at her sides, she hurried out, not bothering with bringing Alice as she intended neither to see nor speak to anyone. Besides, she had no reputation left to guard.

Wearing her best walking boots, she took up a good pace.

Ten feet from her own front door, she spied Foxford's carriage pull to the side of the road. Turning her face, she hurried toward the river. She hoped he hadn't even seen her.

"Lady Purity," he called to her.

Blast the man!

At that moment, instead of the usual anticipatory butterflies at the thought of seeing him, she had rocks in her stomach, weighing her down with humiliation and anger.

Skirting the east side of Green Park, she ignored him still calling after her, but by the time she reached St. James's Park, crowded as usual with beautifully dressed nobility of both sexes, Purity could no longer pretend he wasn't dogging her steps.

Slightly out of breath, she turned her head.

"What do you want?" Her tone came out uncharacteristically sharp, but it matched the emotions churning inside her.

"To talk to you, of course," he said, being his usual unconcerned self as far as she could tell. After all, he was used to the infamy even as those around them started to notice the pair. "Where are we going?"

" We are going nowhere," she told him, as more heads turned. " I am going to Westminster Bridge where I shall refrain from throwing myself into the Thames only by the thin thread of self-preservation to which I still cling."

Determined to get away from the elite of society who were watching and being watched at the park, she kept walking, not even bothering with the tended stone path. Instead, she tramped upon the flowers and across the grass as she made her way to Bridge Street.

Foxford remained silent, but he didn't leave her. He continued following, much to her annoyance. Anyone who saw their silly parade and knew him would know her by association and be reminded of The Times paragraph in the social section. How could he not realize he was making it worse?

Finally, Purity strode onto the bridge, which was congested with carriages, riders, and pedestrians. Halfway across, she stopped and leaned upon the railing to stare at Waterloo Bridge in the distance, glad she'd had the sense to put on her full-brimmed bonnet, for she'd inadvertently left her parasol in the front hall.

Foxford settled beside her. She sighed. If he started to apologize again or to placate her with how this would all blow over like a spring zephyr, she would scream.

"Believe me, kitten, I am sorry," he said.

The knot in the back of her neck tightened.

"Luckily by tomorrow, some other nob's blunder will be on everyone's lips," he added.

She closed her eyes and pursed her lips to keep from screaming. She was Lady Purity Diamond. She didn't cause a scene in public. She certainly didn't raise her voice or cry or have a fit of red devils.

All those things would be disgraceful outside the confines of her own bedroom.

"Leave me in peace," she said quietly. "Turn around and go back to wherever you were going when you noticed me."

"I was coming to see you since I assumed you would be upset."

She still couldn't look at him. He had dragged her into his sordid world of scandal, and she found it difficult to forgive him.

"How would seeing me or my seeing you, for that matter, help in any way?"

"We can face this together," he offered.

She opened her eyes. Down below, a sailboat moved swiftly in the breeze. She wished she could float down like a feather and land on it, letting the boat take her out to sea.

Instead, she would have to hide in her home when the next ball or dinner party invitation came. The notion of facing her peers in a confined space where she couldn't flee was as unappealing as a cup of cold, stale tea. Colorful fans would be raised over whispering mouths, and all eyes would be upon her.

While she tried not to partake in the vulgar act of gossip, many others did. And what was a better topic than an earl's daughter caught with a renowned rake?

Unable to bear her own thoughts, Purity turned and started to walk again, but Foxford's hand snagged her arm.

Outrageous!