Felicity and Elizabeth stood behind Leorah on the stairs, as they had all met Nicholas and Julia on their way down.
Julia said, her brow creased, “It seems Lord Withinghall confessed to Nicholas that he had meant to ask Miss Norbury to marry him in London a few weeks ago, but she had been called away suddenly. And if we invite her while he is here, it will help dispel the rumors about you and the viscount, especially if he is able to become engaged to her.”
The news that Lord Withinghall was planning to ask Augusta Norbury to be his wife sent Leorah’s stomach sinking again. She certainly didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if she cared who he married. “Well, why can’t he wait until he is at his own house? I hardly think he is pining away for such a cold, condescending thing as her.”
Felicity stifled a laugh behind her hand as her sister Elizabeth sucked in a loud breath.
Julia said softly, “I am sorry you do not like her, but—”
“You might not be so against it,” Nicholas interrupted her, “when you hear about the gossip that has started about you and Withinghall.”
She sighed. Should she tell him she’d already heard it?
Julia shook her head and frowned. “Lord Withinghall received a letter today from one of his political advisors in London who said there was talk there about the two of you being alone together in an overturned carriage after dark. They were apparently unaware of his broken leg and your broken wrist, but I’m sure when the truth is known about your injuries, the gossip will die down.”
“Your faith in humanity, my dear Mrs. Langdon,” Nicholas said, “is much beyond mine. I, on the contrary, have little faith the gossip will die on its own, but if we invite Miss Augusta Norbury here, it may help to show that there is nothing untoward between you and Lord Withinghall.”
It was all ridiculous. Society didn’t care if you did something immoral. Society only insisted that you do it quietly and discreetly. And whenever there was gossip to be told, there was no shortage of people who wanted to hear it—and spread it. Hypocrites they were, and yet they had the nerve to accuse innocent people.
“Perhaps Miss Norbury can occupy Lord Withinghall in a more satisfactory manner, and I won’t be expected to sit for half an hour every day by his bedside pretending to enjoy his ill-tempered silences.” Certain that either Nicholas or Julia, or both, were about to scold her for being ungracious, she turned to Felicity and Elizabeth. “Let us go out and take a turn about the garden. I want to show you my favorite spots.”
She slipped her hand through Felicity’s arm and hurried them out into the garden. She didn’t know why her jaw clenched and her shoulders felt so weighed down, but no doubt it was due in some way to Lord Withinghall.
The next day, which marked a week since the carriage accident that had stranded Lord Withinghall at Glyncove Abbey, Nicholas came into the sitting room where Leorah was chatting and laughing with Felicity and Elizabeth.
“Leorah, may I trouble you to come and meet with me and a gentleman who has lately arrived?” He appeared quite serious. “I believe it is a somewhat delicate matter.”
Leorah stood, understanding that he wanted her to come alone. “Shall I be away from Felicity and Elizabeth very long?”
“Not long, I think.”
Leorah and her friends exchanged curious glances before Leorah turned and followed Nicholas out into the corridor.
“Who is here?” Leorah whispered.
“It is Lord Withinghall’s rector,” Nicholas said softly, “a Mr. Tilney. I believe he wants to speak with you and Withinghall about the rumors surrounding your carriage accident.”
“Of all the ridiculous things . . .”
“We will listen to what he has to say, then send him on his way and make up our own minds about the matter.” Nicholas didn’t look particularly worried, but the entire thing was terribly vexing. To think of all the ridiculous gossips who had nothing better to do than blather about innocent people.
Leorah entered the drawing room and stopped. Lord Withinghall was sitting on the couch, his broken leg wrapped to double the size, propped up on pillows and stretched out straight in front of him. Nearby, against the wall, was a strange-looking wheeled chair.
The usual pleasantries were exchanged and introductions made. Mr. Tilney was an older man with deep wrinkles, and though his hairline had receded a bit, he had a copious amount of black hair streaked with white. His expression of lowered brows and pinched lips was severe, and he fixed her with such a gravely intense gaze of his dark eyes, he made Leorah feel like an exotic animal in a cage being examined by a zoologist.
Lord Withinghall, looking even more cross than usual—perhaps his leg was paining him after venturing downstairs—prompted the rector by saying, “Now that we are all gathered, perhaps you can inform us of the business of your errand.”
Nicholas, Julia, Lord Withinghall, and Mr. Tilney were the only ones in the room, and they all seemed to watch her sit down, as if they were holding their breath until she chose a seat near Julia.
Leorah’s mother was not there as she was in bed with a bad headache.
“Of course. I shall come to the point, if I may, without ceremony.” Mr. Tilney’s voice was deep and sonorous, and he spoke slowly, as if to lend his words more weight. “Although I do wish to say that I regret that I must bring to you such grave tidings. I have known Lord Withinghall since he was a child, and I believe he is being wrongly treated in this instance. By whom, it is not yet clear.”
He seemed to avoid looking at Leorah. What was he insinuating? Her cheeks began to flush, and she sat up straight, knowing she would not wait for either her brother or Lord Withinghall to defend her. She would defend herself against any and all unjust accusations. She was not a fainting, fearful, mousy girl to be insulted by anyone, even visiting clergy.
She coerced herself to listen carefully to every word.
“It has been reported to me . . . by more than one reliable source . . . that Lord Withinghall’s carriage overturned, and he spent the night with an unmarried lady, reportedly Miss Leorah Langdon.”
“That is completely false.” Leorah couldn’t stop herself from blurting out.
“It was reported thus in the Morning Herald,” he went on in his sermonizing voice, fixing his eyes on Leorah again, “and anything reported in the Morning Herald is thought by the majority of England to be unequivocally true.”
“We did not spend the night together,” Lord Withinghall spoke up, his voice brittle. His jaw seemed set in stone, except for a slight twitch.
“It was said that when the two gentlemen, one a clergyman, the other a member of the House of Commons, came upon you, it was night and you were lying together on the bottom of the carriage.”
Leorah’s cheeks flamed hotter. It was vicious and scandalous, but how could they refute it?