“Why does having to heat a house cost so much?” muttered Lady Bridget Dyson. She was sure that every time she saw a new bill from the coal merchant, the price had gone up. At least her late husband, Rupert, god rest his soul, had left her with enough of an annual income to meet these sorts of expenses.
For once, he did something right by me.
She set the invoice aside and turned to gaze out the sitting-room window. The Dyson house, number 12 Berkeley Square, sat just past the corner of Bruton Street, facing onto the lush green of the square. On days like this, when she considered what had become of her life, Bridget liked to imagine she was a young girl once more, perched high up in the branches of one of the imposing plane trees. A happy child without a care in the world.
“Instead, I am working my way through dull household accounts.”
Yes, but you are venturing back into society this evening. And you are planning on wearing that gorgeous silver and gold silk gown.
It was odd to be thinking of colors once more. But she had done her time in donning the drab black of a widow, making certain she respected the memory of Rupert. She had been most scrupulous in observing society’s expectations as to her manner of dress and conduct. In her time of mourning, she had been careful not to put a foot wrong.
The fact that she and Rupert’s marriage had been an utter disaster was neither here nor there. Appearances were what counted.
Rupert had been dead for a year; her sentence as his wife and grieving widow was now over. It was Bridget’s time to move on—to begin to shape and rebuild her life into one of her own choosing and maybe even find happiness.
A tall fair-haired gentleman passed by on the opposite side of the street. Bridget leaned closer to get a better look.
Well-dressed. I like the cut of his coat. I wonder if he likes to dance.
Stepping back into society was something she was looking forward to; it would make a welcome change from the mind-numbing quiet of her recent existence.
Perhaps I could take a lover. I am a widow. It is quite acceptable.
She smiled at the thought. Polite society was always prepared to turn a blind eye to those sorts of liaisons as long as they were conducted discretely.
And thanks to Rupert spreading a spiteful rumor about her, Bridget’s reputation as the Barren Baroness would no doubt guarantee that there would be plenty of gentlemen willing to share her bed. A young, unattached woman able to indulge in a sexual relationship without the risk of pregnancy would be perfect in the eyes of many a man.
A rap on the sitting room door roused Bridget from her musings. Her attention shifted from the window to her brother, Tristan, as he marched into the room.
“Hello. I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
And you were not announced. I must have a word with the butler.
She rose, moving out from behind the desk. Her normally cheerful sibling wore an expression of dark worry. But before she had a chance to ask what was wrong, Tristan had spun on his heel and headed back to the door.
He closed it firmly behind him and turned the key in the lock. “My apologies for the sudden visit. As you and I were meant to be going to the opera tonight, I hadn’t planned on coming over this morning, but something has come up. Something which cannot wait.”
Dread suddenly gripped her. “Is it Papa?”
Earl Linton had not been a well man for a number of years. Bridget had fully expected to bury her father long before she had to say farewell to her strapping and fit husband. But she had learned that life had a strange way of turning out, of throwing up unexpected and unwelcome surprises.
Tristan shook his head. “No. It’s Mama.”
Mama?
“She has been at it again.”
Bridget winced, knowing exactly what it meant. The countess loved to play card games; cribbage was her favorite. She was an expert at the game and loved to win.
While many members of the ton went to private parties to socialize and dance, Lady Linton only attended if there were tables at which she could play and gamble.
She was also a cheat.
“I thought she’d promised she wouldn’t do it anymore. Not after the ugly fallout I had to deal with following the Duchess of Bedford’s midwinter ball,” replied Bridget.
“Yes, well, old habits appear to die hard,” said Tristan.
She had still been in mourning at the time, so Bridget had fortunately been spared having to witness the embarrassing sight of two lifelong friends exchanging harsh words through the open windows of their respective carriages.
The last thing Bridget needed as she stood on the cusp of reentering society was to yet again be having to smooth over the wounded pride of another of her mother’s friends.
“Who is it this time?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I received a letter early yesterday. It was signed only with an initial,” replied Tristan.
He dipped his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew a piece of paper before handing it to Bridget. She unfolded it, her heart sinking as she took in the cold, hard words.
Lady Linton,
On several occasions of late, you have been seen miscounting your hand while playing at the cribbage tables. While the odd arithmetical error can be excused, your ongoing inability to correctly announce your score cannot, however, be tolerated.
It is time to pay for your sins.
You have until the end of the month to hand over the sum of 2,000 guineas or the full details of your dishonest ways will be printed in every newspaper in London.
In the meantime, you will place an advertisement in The Times noting your acknowledgement of this letter, after which you will receive further instructions.
You should, of course, keep this matter private. If not, I will make my accusations public.
Lady Linton, the choice is yours—your husband’s purse or the ruin of your family.
N.
Bridget quietly folded the letter and handed it back to Tristan. For a moment, she feared she might faint. “Who the devil is ‘N?’”
“Believe me when I say I lay awake all last night racking my brains as to who it could be, but I have no idea. I expect ‘N’ is just a nom de plume.”
Two thousand guineas. And I was worried about the cost of heating.
Tristan took a hold of Bridget’s hand. “I know it is only ten o’clock in the morning, but I would kill for a brandy.”
Her gaze went to the nearby sideboard. One of Rupert’s bottles of expensive French brandy sat unopened on the top. Imbibing at this hour was not the proper thing in polite society, but then again, Bridget doubted that Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women had a passage on how one should conduct oneself upon receiving a blackmail letter.
Tristan released his hold on her, and Bridget went to fetch him a drink.
She had just poured him a generous glass, when he cleared his throat. “You might want to pour yourself one too. Mama is waiting outside the door. She wanted me to tell you first before you saw her. That is why your butler did not announce our arrival.”
“Oh,” Bridget sighed.
She could understand Tristan’s way of thinking. A stiff drink might well be the lesser of two evils. The other being to go and seize her mother by the shoulders and try to shake some sense into her.
Bridget’s hand was trembling as she set down the bottle of brandy. No, she wouldn’t succumb to either temptation. “Have your drink. I will fetch Mama.” Bridget unlocked the door and flung it open.
Any notions of yelling at her mother vanished as soon as her gaze settled on the countess. Lady Linton’s tear-streaked face and reddened eyes melted Bridget’s heart in an instant.
“I have been so very naughty again. I’m sorry, darling,” whispered Lady Linton. The countess rushed past her and into the room.
Gritting her teeth, Bridget followed, closing the door behind them.
Tristan managed to set his glass aside just in time as Lady Linton threw herself into his arms.
“Alright, we know you are sorry. Calm down, Mama. You promised no more tears.” While he held their mother in his comforting embrace, Tristan’s gaze met Bridget’s.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
Tristan prized his mother off him and helped her over to one of the plush, well-padded sofas. The countess took up a spot at one end, her head resting in her hand.
Bridget averted her gaze as she recalled the endless hours she too had spent seated in that same spot while crying her eyes out over the cruel behavior of her late husband.
But this situation with her mother was different to the many occasions she had found herself in as a result of the actions of a cruel spouse—different in one very important respect. With Rupert, the tears had been shed in despair and hopelessness. At least with the blackmailer, they had an ounce of hope.
If worse comes to worst, we shall just have to pay the money.
“I’ve a plan to deal with this blackguard who is trying to ruin our family, but it is not going to be an easy task,” announced Tristan.
The countess began to sob once more, this time loudly.
Bridget did her best to maintain a composed and calm veneer. Having two tearful women wouldn’t aid their cause.
“Mama and I are leaving for Linton in the morning. We can’t have her going home and facing Papa on her own. I fear it will end in disaster.”
She caught the anger which simmered in her brother’s words. He would be the one who had to undertake the ghastly task of informing their frail father that his wife had put their family reputation on the line. It didn’t bear mentioning that if news of Lady Linton’s repeated indiscretions ever became public, the Linton name would be damaged beyond repair.
While Lady Linton continued with her tears of self-pity, Bridget did her best to dampen her own smoldering rage. “Mama created this problem. She should be the one to have to deal with it, not you.” Her gaze fell on the slumped form of her mother, and to her dismay, Bridget found herself wishing ill of one of her parents.
I am so angry with you right this minute. I don’t think I can muster up a kind word.
Tristan sighed. “I’m afraid I might be getting the better end of the bargain. It is you who has the hardest task ahead of them. While I am doing my best to keep both our mother and father from falling apart, it is you, sister dearest, who will have to deal with the matter of the blackmailer.”
She went to protest, but Tristan shook his head.
“We have to keep this quiet. And I must protect our family. Papa most of all. I have no desire to become Earl Linton anytime soon. If the blackmail money needs to be paid, I will return to London and deal with our bankers.”
Tristan dug his hand into his coat pocket once more and retrieved a card. He handed it to Bridget.
Discretion assured. Results guaranteed.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Tristan stepped closer. His gaze darted to their mother then back to Bridget. He leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “That is the card of the man who is hopefully going to solve our problems.”
Bridget turned the card over. There was not a name or address anywhere to be seen. Just four words of promise. “Who is he?”
“You will find out soon enough when you meet him. He has asked that the use of his name be kept to an absolute minimum.” Tristan pulled his watch from out of his vest pocket and flipped it open. “And in answer to your next question—in about an hour’s time. I’ve given him your name and address. I have also paid his initial fee.”
Turning it over and over between her fingers, Bridget pondered what sort of man would be behind such a nebulous calling card. On one hand he proclaimed his skills and record of success, while on the other he remained nameless. “Alright. I will meet with this mystery man. But if I think he is a charlatan set only on getting money out of us, I warn you, I won’t hesitate to unmask him. Who is to say he is not behind the scheme to blackmail us; have you considered that?”
The card folded in Bridget’s grasp as Tristan settled a hand over hers. “He comes well recommended by some close friends of mine. People with titles and power. People whom I trust.”
The countess stirred from the sofa, and getting to her feet, slowly walked over to join her two children. She wore a sheepish expression on her face, one which had Bridget frowning. “I haven’t told either of you this before now, but I have used this gentleman’s services in the past.”
“What?!” exclaimed Tristan.
Lady Linton straightened her spine and met her son’s gaze. “The fact that none of you ever found out about either of those occasions only goes to show how good this man is.”
Bridget took a hasty step back as her brother seized their mother by the arm and dragged her toward the door. “I think it is time we left. I feel a most urgent need for a heart-to-heart with our dear mother. Bridget, send word if you want anything from me. We are off home to pack. I’m not waiting for tomorrow; the family coach will be leaving London today.”
The door rattled in its frame for several seconds after Tristan slammed it shut behind him.
Bridget examined the crushed calling card one more time, then headed back to the sideboard. After opening a bottle of whisky, she filled a glass with more than she should, downing it all in one go.
Her future and that of her family stood on a knife’s edge. If the Lintons could escape from this nightmare without it becoming public knowledge, she might finally have a chance to find contentment. To put the misery and heartache of her past to rest. She had as much invested in the outcome of the next few weeks as anyone else.
“Whoever you are, I will do all that you ask to save my mother’s reputation. But if you are a scoundrel seeking to profit from our misfortune, rest assured I will do everything in my power to destroy you.”
One person had already ruined her life. She would not stand for it to happen a second time.