was an earl, if I remembered correctly. A man spoken about in hushed whispers, not only because of his power and influence, but because of a family full of scandals.
Lady Whitfield was a pretty thing with dark hair and blue eyes that matched her dress. Her belly had the slightest roundness that said she was with child, although not one person dared mention it. How intriguing. Most women stayed hidden away at home when with child. But then the Whitfield family was not like most.
Briefly, I wondered what Ginny had looked like when pregnant. In that moment, I wished more than anything that I could have seen her. I brushed the thought aside as Lady Alice made the introductions.
Although my father had inherited his title years ago, and my grandfather had been a gentleman, I still didn’t quite feel like I belonged. I doubted I ever would. Maybe it was because I’d forever know I was a fraud, and I was forever waiting for everyone else to notice. But no one did…these people who were so caught up in their own lives, the drama of the world around them.
“Lady Whitfield is an artist, you know,” Lady Alice explained. “Has her paintings hanging in some of the finest homes in London. In fact, Lord Chambers, you might want to snatch one up before it’s too late. Her waiting list is growing.”
“Really?” Miranda whispered, her pleading gaze on me.
Alice was scandalous, and I wondered if Lady Whitfield was as well. I’d heard little about the Whitfield’s, for they tended to stay in the country and amongst themselves. Perhaps they, too, had secrets. Perhaps everyone did. What an intriguing concept.
“Oh yes, one of her paintings is even being shown in The National Gallery.”
Lady Whitfield flushed. “Tis nothing.”
“Nothing?” Alice said. “You should have seen how proud of her Lord Whitfield was. Preening as if he had produced the painting himself. But isn’t that the way of men? Always claiming things that aren’t their own?”
“Alice,” Lady Whitfield laughed. “Don’t be cruel toward my husband when he isn’t here to defend himself.”
I didn’t miss the glow in her gaze at the mention of her husband. A love match? I almost scoffed at the thought. I swore I remembered a scandal that had come about with their marriage. Something to do with Lady Whitfield’s sister…
A stiff wind whipped down the lane, stirring the skirts of the women until they shrieked and grabbed at their bonnets. Lady Whitfield’s parcel fell, sheets of paper catching the breeze and fluttering across the path.
“My drawings!” Lady Whitfield cried out jumping toward the closest piece of paper. “They’ll be ruined.”
I bent to scoop up a drawing, while Chris leapt after another.
“So clumsy of me,” Lady Whitfield murmured, taking the drawings I’d managed to grab. “Thank you.”
“These are quite good, my lady,” Chris said, handing her a drawing of little children. “Very well done.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
As they spoke about her drawings, I spotted a piece of paper stuck in the shrubbery, fluttering on the breeze. I grabbed the paper before the wind took it away. A drawing of a girl. A young girl with wide, curious eyes and a small smile, as if she knew secrets the rest of the world didn’t. There was something about that mischievous glint, something about the boldness in her gaze, that reminded me of Ginny. Hell, would every woman with dark hair forever remind me of her?
Lady Whitfield paused next to me. “She was my husband’s sister.”
“Was?” I said, before thinking better of it. Her life story was none of my business. Nor was it polite of me to ask for details. Yet, for some reason I was intrigued. “What happened?”
“Yes, well…”
I handed her the drawing, oddly reluctant to let it go. The girl had died. The girl who reminded me so much of Ginny. Of my own daughter. Something squeezed at my heart. Something dark and depressing. Something I wasn’t sure I wanted to dwell upon.
What would happen to Ginny? To my daughter? Babies died all the time from disease. Did Miss Lamier pay her well? Did they have enough food? Clothing?
She tucked the papers back into her case. “Are you well, Lord Chambers? You look a bit pale.”
I straightened. “Yes, of course.”
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Miranda called out. “Miss Lamier?”
Startled, I tore my gaze from the drawings. “I’m sorry?”
“The seamstress, silly.” She reached into her reticule and handed a card to Alice. “You must visit her, before everyone in London is vying for her attention.”