Page 11 of A Lady's Guide to Scandal

Mr de Lacy barrelled on with a long and uninteresting story about Gerry’s latest escapade, and though Kitty laughed along, her attention was firmly elsewhere. While Mr de Lacy might move through life with the cheery self-assurance that everything would work out in his favour in the end, Kitty did not. She highly doubted that Lady Radcliffe would change her opinion without some outside intervention, and so she must think of a way to make Lady Radcliffe like her. But how to do it?

‘I am so sorry to hear of your mother’s illness,’ she said softly, once Mr de Lacy had finished his soliloquy. ‘I only wish there was something I could do.’

‘Wouldn’t worry your head about it,’ Mr de Lacy told her. ‘The doctors will say there’s nothing wrong with her, she won’t believe them, and it will be some hocus-pocus medicine from cook or Lady Montagu that will cure her in the end. Before the whole thing starts up again.’

‘Is that so,’ Kitty said thoughtfully. Then, after a beat, ‘Have I ever told you that I have a great interest in medicine?’

‘You haven’t – at least, not that I can remember,’ Archie confessed.

‘I do. In Dorsetshire, you know we are most comfortable with the use of herbal remedies,’ she lied. ‘Your mother’s fainting spells sound most familiar to me; I am sure Mrs Palmer from our town was similarly afflicted and I have a recipe of the elixir that cured her. Would you permit me to write her a note recommending it?’

Mr de Lacy looked a little thrown by this, but nodded willingly enough, and when they were deposited onto Wimpole Street Kitty bade the carriage wait as she darted inside to pull out some writing paper. In her best penmanship, she wrote a quick note to Lady Radcliffe, before dashing back out to hand it to Mr de Lacy.

‘You are most prodigiously kind, Miss Talbot,’ Mr de Lacy told her, admiration shining in his eyes.

Kitty thanked him modestly. She was not, of course, in the least motivated by kindness, and the remedy she had written of was entirely fictional and completely harmless. Kitty’s experience of healthy persons who suffered often from sickness, such as Lady Radcliffe, had taught her that they valued sympathy for, and the discussion of, their infirmity very highly. She hoped that the obvious dismissal of Lady Radcliffe’s illnesses by both her children and medical professionals might have created in the lady a hunger for a sympathetic ear. It was a shot in the dark, Kitty knew, but the only one she could think of making.

The mood in Wimpole Street the next morning was low. They were all tired, Aunt Dorothy from a late-night game of whist with her old friend Mrs Ebdon, Kitty from the tension of the past few days, and Cecily from … Well, whatever sort of thing made Cecily tired. The auspicious spring weather had broken, with a chilly breeze brought in from the east. The three women stared out of the window, a little gloomily – the weather having, as it did for all British persons, an infectious quality upon their mood. Though in Biddington, at least, such a paltry chill in the air would not have kept them indoors all day. Kitty’s other sisters were no doubt striding into town, unheeding of the weather – though Kitty could not truthfully know what they were doing, for she had yet to receive a letter from them in return. They had agreed to write only sparingly, the cost of receiving post an extravagance they could barely afford, but Kitty yearned to hear from them, nonetheless.

‘Help Sally in with the breakfast, would you, dear?’ Aunt Dorothy asked Kitty, but before she could, the door had opened and Sally entered – with a note in hand, instead of her usual tray.

‘It’s for you, miss,’ she said, handing it to Kitty. ‘Boy who brought it says it’s from the Dowager Lady Radcliffe.’

Her disbelieving tone made it clear she rather thought this a lie. Kitty broke the seal. The note, written in beautiful cursive upon thick cream paper, was short.

Dear Miss Talbot,

Thank you for your solicitous note. The recipe you sent proved to be most effective – I partook of it yesterday and my symptoms have quite disappeared. If you would be kind enough to call upon me tomorrow, I should like to express my thanks in person. I will be at home between two and four o’clock.

Yours,

Lady Helena Radcliffe

Kitty smiled.

7

The seventh Earl of Radcliffe sat in the breakfast parlour of his country house, calmly availing himself of his morning meal and perusing a parcel of letters. The London Season not yet beginning for two more weeks, he was not alone in spending this time away from the bustling city, much of the ton availing themselves of the same opportunity. He was singular, however, in having avoided London for the past two years almost entirely. Since the death of his father and his ascension to the title of Earl, Lord Radcliffe had preferred to remain at the family seat in Devonshire, rather than face London’s ravenous hordes. And yet, in his crisp white shirt, impeccably arranged cravat, and shining black Hessian boots, he still looked every inch the sophisticated London gentleman – his only concession to location being the casual disarray of his dark curls.

‘Anything of note, Jamie?’ his friend, Captain Henry Hinsley, formerly of the 7th Brigadiers, called lazily from his relaxed sprawl on the chaise longue.

‘Just business, Hinsley’ Radcliffe called back, ‘and a note from my mother.’

Hinsley gave a short bark of laughter. ‘That’s the third letter this week. Is she ill?’

‘Always,’ Radcliffe murmured absently, his eyes moving down the page. Hinsley propped himself up on his elbows, the better to regard his friend.

‘Lumbago? Pox?’ he suggested, grinning. ‘Or is she just up in arms about the chit Archie’s enamoured with?’

‘The latter, although the young lady in question has graduated from “chit” to “harpy”.’

‘Spare my blushes, James.’ Hinsley clasped a hand to his heart. ‘What has the poor girl done to deserve such defamation?’

Radcliffe began to read aloud. ‘“My dear James, I must implore you to fly to London at once. Our dear Archie, my precious son, your younger brother” – does she think I’ve forgotten who Archie is? – “is on the cusp of ruin. He spends every waking moment with the harpy, who has him securely within her grasp. I fear it may soon be too late.”’

Radcliffe ended the soliloquy in tones of such portentous doom that Hinsley let out a shout of laughter.

‘After his virtue, is she? Lucky boy. And are you to ride to his rescue?’