If anything, she was distracted.
She had just completed the remainder of the invitations—the ones allocated to her mother. They had to go out right away if she was going to know the number of those attending her ball. Shelley was doing her best to help with the arrangements, but until the responses came in, they were at a standstill. At least the question of where they were staying in Bath had been settled; Shelley had hired a town house on their behalf.
Piling the outgoing invitations on Shodster’s tray, Lydia watched him depart before turning to the innocent-looking piece of paper. With a sigh of relief, she broke the seal and began to read, stifling a yelp as she did so. It was just as well that she had the morning room to herself.
Looking down at the neat, florid script, Lydia read the note a second time. It didn’t seem real; it couldn’t be real!
Miss Whitfield.
You are not half as clever as you think you are!
It is known that you spent an entire night away from good company! No chaperone, no parent, no guardian to protect your reputation.
A whisper in the right ears will see you labeled a harlot; the doors of polite society will be slammed in your face. Ruination and censure will be your companion for the rest of your days.
Unless an investment of four hundred pounds is left behind the Havisham grave marker at St. Mary’s in Bankend. Then, and only then, will the whispers be silenced.
The future is up to you.
You have three days.
Lydia laughed; it was a weak sort of gurgle that didn’t sound like amusement even to her ears. She didn’t know which part of this threat upset her the most. The idea that someone would stoop so low; the thought of trying to secure such a large sum in three days; or that this rotter thought her weak enough to succumb to villainous blackmail.
Marching across the room, Lydia stood before the fire, her arm partially extended. And there it stayed while she examined the whole.
Was this then the true purpose of her abduction? A source of income—for Lydia was fairly certain that once paid, other notes of its ilk would arrive on a regular basis. That could account for the ease of her escape and the lack of a ransom demand.
Or was the note a byproduct of her curious adventure? Few knew of the episode, but it took only one immoral character to see an opportunity in her calamitous day. Could the author be found before the havoc of rumors was wreaked upon them? She did have the services of a Bow Street Runner near at hand. And she did not doubt that the blackmail would end only with the writer’s apprehension.
Lydia stepped back from the fire, lowering the paper away from the heat.
Best preserve the letter for Mr. Warner to see in person. She would send Jeremy to Spelding on an errand of some sort and include a request, a return visit from the Principal Officer of Bow Street.
With a smile born of satisfaction, Lydia reached for the bellpull.
This person, this villain, would rue the day he or she tried to take on Lydia Mary Whitfield. She ignored the niggling thought that it could also be the ruination of her life … and all those around her.
*
“An empty threat.” Cora selected two playing cards. “Fret not. Fifteen two, fifteen four … and a pair for six. I think that is all I have.” She moved her pegs in the cribbage board and then glanced up at Lydia.
“I am trying not to be affected, but…” She allowed the sentence to trail off. Trying not to fret was proving to be difficult. Enough time had passed for Lydia’s temper to lessen, and as it dissolved, disquiet filled the void.
A ruined reputation would affect the entire household. Society would look askance at all the ladies of Roseberry should news of Lydia’s disappearance be made known. Worthy marriage prospects for Elaine, Ivy, and Tessa would vanish on the strength of Lydia’s immoral influence.
She sighed, far deeper than she meant to, and offered Cora a weak smile to compensate. “Mr. Warner said much the same thing, although he used a lot more words.”
Cora laughed and then looked around uncomfortably.
Lydia, too, glanced at the other occupants of the drawing room and was pleased that none had been disturbed. Mama dozed in her favorite chair, and Elaine and Aunt Freya were in deep conversation over a magazine article that declared ruffles passé. The girls had long since gone to bed, and Uncle … well, Lydia did not know where he had taken himself off to, but then, neither did she care.
“He said the rumors could be quashed. The incident passed unnoticed to begin with, and to dredge it up after a fortnight seems rather desperate.” Lydia shook her head, unintentionally causing the candles to flicker in the wafting air. “He intimated that ladies were so talented at prevarication that we would have no problem staring anyone down. I don’t think there is a gender requirement for hedging, do you?”
“Most definitely not—oh, the kitty is yours, I believe.” Cora pushed the four cards in Lydia’s direction. “Still, if stonewalling is to be our tactic, there are many routes to take. We could react in great surprise, or incredulity. Oh, no, the truth. Yes, that should be our avenue. ‘You cannot be serious; I was with Miss Whitfield in Bath. What did she do, leave me screaming on the side of the road?’” Cora grinned. “Oh, yes, I could have great fun with that.”
Lydia blinked at her friend’s words, surprised by her teasing tone. She was fairly certain Cora’s levity was meant to set the tone between them—establish that they were placed well enough in society that they could ignore such plebeian discourses. Lydia hoped it was true.
Glancing down at her cards, Lydia showed Cora her pair and then passed them back to be shuffled. “There is one person who might be abjectly affected by the rumors.”
“Lord Aldershot.”
“Yes. True or not, he will be upset that my name should be bandied about. Poor man.”
“Perhaps you should tell him.”
“I might have to, but for now I will wait to see how this plays out.” Lydia glanced up to see that Cora was watching her with a troubled expression—though that might have been a trick of the low light.
“Are you sure that is the way you want to play it?”
Lydia frowned down at her cards and then, realizing that her friend was not referring to the game, looked back to Cora. “You don’t agree?”
“Well, it is not for me to say,” she said, “but I think that a husband should be someone with whom you can share all your worries and concerns. Someone whom you can support but who can also support you.”
“Ah, but you are talking about a romantic marriage. One that involves heady emotions and a great deal of leaning.” Lydia was surprised by the passing thought that the words, which she had spouted on more than one occasion, sounded … well, more appealing than they had before.
“It’s mutual leaning, Lydia. Sharing and caring and … euphoria.”