Her voice trailed off, but just the mention of their mother was enough to send a ripple of disquiet through Henry. As far back as he could remember, Mama had always been his idea of the perfect duchess—a gracious hostess who worked tirelessly for charity, conversed intelligently on any subject, and performed her many duties in exemplary fashion. She was, in fact, the only member of his family who had never given him cause for concern. Of late, however—
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Angela,” Sarah’s voice cut into Henry’s uneasy thoughts. “What sensation about our family has Society Snippets printed this week?”
David made a sound of contempt. “That scandal rag? Why are you reading that, in heaven’s name?”
“I—” Angela paused, turning to Henry, and in her eyes, the same pale gray eyes as his, he could see the reflection of his own growing apprehension. “This is Mama’s paper. I saw her reading it last night. On my way into breakfast, I found it with the morning papers, so I took it. I fancied it might be amusing to read a scandal sheet at breakfast. Amusing?” she repeated, her voice choking on the word. “What was I thinking?”
“Whatever you’ve read that is causing you such distress, you’d best tell me,” Henry advised. “Then, and only then, can I do something about it.”
“I’m imagining things, I’m sure,” she said, but her voice was unconvincing.
“Perhaps.” He braced himself. “But tell me anyway.”
She nodded, lifted the paper higher, and began to read. “‘Dear Lady Truelove—’”
A groan from David interrupted. “Do stop, Angela. Every time I visit my club, it seems the lads are reading that woman’s column—aloud to each other, if you please. Deuced distracting—”
“David, stop rattling away,” Jamie admonished. “I fear something serious is in the wind. Keep reading, Angela.”
Angela cleared her throat and began again.
“‘Dear Lady Truelove, I am a lady of good society, highly placed within the ton. It is because of my rank that I find myself in an unbearable conundrum, and I am writing to you in the hope that you can help me resolve it. When I was young, a girl of only seventeen, I married a man twenty years my senior. I was not in love with this man—’”
Angela broke off, her cheeks pink, clearly embarrassed to be reading such an intimate account aloud. In the pause that followed, she looked at Henry again, and the uneasiness in his guts deepened and spread.
“Go on,” he said, his voice hard even to his own ears. “Read the rest.”
Angela’s gaze dropped again to the newspaper in her hand. “‘Nor,’” she continued, “‘was I even particularly fond of him. I agreed to his proposal only at the behest of my family, for he was considered an excellent match for me. After many years in this loveless union, and having borne five children, I found myself a widow, and until recently, I was content with my situation. But now, in the autumn of my life, I have fallen in love, truly and completely in love, for the first time. The man whom I hold in such passionate regard, however, is not of my station. He is a painter, a brilliant artist—’”
“What?” Sarah gasped. “So the gossip about Mama and Foscarelli is actually true?”
Henry glanced around and appreciated that his youngest sister’s shock seemed to be shared by everyone at the table. But for his own part, he was not all that surprised. Loath as he was to admit it, the signs his mother was embroiled in an inappropriate liaison with the Italian painter had been there for months, yet he had chosen to believe his mother’s recent lessons in the painting of oils were borne of a desire for artistic expression, rather than desire of a more primitive kind. Suspicions to the contrary had been rattling around in the back of his mind, but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge them. He thought of his own past indiscretions, and he appreciated just how his father must have felt on his behalf a decade ago.
Slowly, he set down his knife and fork. “Go on,” he said again, and Angela complied.
“‘For many months, I have tried to deny my feelings for this man, but I have come to accept that they are too strong for denial. He has proposed honorable marriage, and everything within me cries out to consent.’”
Honorable marriage? Henry rolled his eyes. There wasn’t anything honorable about Foscarelli. He was a lothario of the worst description.
“But what does she mean to do?” Sarah cried. “She can’t really be thinking to marry him. He’s Italian.” The last word was uttered as a devastated wail.
“‘Needless to say,’” Angela continued, “‘my family would not approve—’”
“She’s right about that,” David muttered.
Angela paused again, giving an exasperated sigh. “If all of you keep interrupting, I shall never come to the end of this narrative. Do be quiet and listen.” She leaned forward in her chair and went on, “‘So, my dear Lady Truelove, the dilemma I face is this: should I suppress what I feel and refuse this man, as honor dictates? Or should I surrender to love, accept his proposal, and allow myself to be happy?’ Signed, ‘A Lady of Society.’”
She lowered the paper, and in the silence that followed, all of them glanced at Henry, waiting for him to speak, reminding him of his duty as head of the family.
“We don’t know that this lady is Mama or that the artist in question is Foscarelli,” he pointed out, trying to sound reasonable and logical, but the mere voicing of that man’s name in connection with his mother sparked his outrage and threatened to send reason and logic to the wall. And the idea that such a scoundrel would dare regard himself as worthy to marry their mama brought all Henry’s protective instincts to the fore.
Still, as tempting as it was to find the notorious painter and thrash him within an inch of his life, Henry knew his first priority was to reassure his siblings, then determine the true facts. “That man has been linked with many women of society other than Mama,” he went on. “Sometimes accurately, and sometimes not, I imagine. As for the letter to this Lady Truelove, I daresay it is an invention, the product of a journalist with a vivid imagination and a salacious mind.”
“But the similarities are so striking,” Sarah said, her voice faint. “If this is Mama, and if she were ever to marry that man . . .” She stopped, clearly too overcome by the horror of such a possibility to continue.
“Any similarities have no doubt been taken straight from the gossip columns, Sarah,” he pointed out. “Mama’s lessons in art have been fodder for the gutter press all season, and that has obviously provided this Lady Truelove with the inspiration for her latest fictitious offering.”
They all nodded in agreement, but Henry didn’t know if any of them were reassured. He certainly wasn’t.
