The Truth about the Rogue (Whispers of the Ton #2)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

“ G ood afternoon, my friend.”

Andrew straightened from where he had been bowing over Lady Bradford’s hand, only to grin broadly and drop the hand immediately, turning away from her at once.

“Glenfield! How good to see you!” The clearing of a throat caused him to pause and turn back to Lady Bradford, who was now looking at him with a slightly lifted eyebrow. “Forgive me,” he said quickly, having no desire to lose her interest in him, “but I must step away. Lord Glenfield has only just returned to London, it seems, and I have not seen him in some months! I shall return and steal more of your time for myself, however. Very soon, I assure you.”

This brought a small smile to the lady’s face, and she gave him both a nod and a touch of her fingers to his before she stepped away. When Andrew looked back to his friend, Lord Glenfield was grinning broadly.

“I see that you have the same intentions this Season as you did last Season?” he asked, as Andrew chuckled. “Might I ask who that lady was?”

“A lady whose husband has disappeared to the continent and has not returned as yet, even though he has been away a year!” Andrew shrugged. “If she wishes for a bit of attention, I cannot blame her for that, now can I?”

He lifted his eyebrows, and his friend laughed aloud, slapping Andrew on the back.

“You certainly have not changed in the least!” he exclaimed, as both he and Andrew made their way to the other side of the room, with Andrew spying the table where a footman waited to dispense glasses of whisky and brandy. “I, however, have decided that I must change.”

This stopped Andrew short.

“I beg your pardon?”

He looked back at his friend steadily, though Lord Glenfield merely shrugged and then reached for two glasses, pushing one into Andrew’s hand.

“I have decided that I must change,” Lord Glenfield said again, more steadily this time. “I have been something of a rogue for the last few Seasons – though nothing like you! – and I have determined that I shall be a rogue no more.” Something cold seemed to drape itself around Andrew’s shoulders. He had expected Lord Glenfield to be just the same as he had been before, determined to make as much of a nuisance of himself as he could. He had expected Lord Glenfield to be as much of a rogue as he had ever been though, certainly, he had been a little less so than Andrew, but to know that he would change entirely was not something that Andrew had been prepared for. “You need not look so disappointed!” Laughing, Lord Glenfield shrugged. “I will be just as I was with you before, at least. Our friendship will be the same as it has always been!”

“I am glad to hear that at least,” Andrew answered, trying to rearrange his expression so he did not look as sorrowful. “Might I ask what precisely it is that you mean?”

His friend smiled.

“I mean that I intend to marry.”

Andrew sucked in a breath, the future he had anticipated shattering into a thousand pieces. He had known that Lord Glenfield had been considering his responsibilities last Season, but had never expected that this would be the answer he would come up with! To consider matrimony was one thing, but to pursue it was quite another and Andrew had expected many a Season ahead of them where they would both continue on just as they pleased. Evidently, his expectation had been quite wrong.

“I do not have any young lady in mind as yet,” his friend continued, as though this was just as Andrew ought to have expected, “but all the same, I do not think that it will be too difficult to discover someone. The London Season is just as it should be in that, is it not?”

“If by that, you mean that it is filled with young ladies, all with the hope of finding themselves a husband, then yes, I would say that you are quite right there,” Andrew admitted, albeit a little ruefully. “Though I myself would have no interest in such a thing.”

“No?” His friend chuckled. “I thought you might have changed your mind, given your… other hobby.”

“Hush!” Andrew exclaimed, leaning closer to his friend, fright making his heart leap in his chest. “You know very well that I do not speak of that to anyone. You are the only one who is aware of it.”

Lord Glenfield’s expression became suddenly serious, and he put one hand to his heart.

“Forgive me, I ought not to have made light of that,” he said, with a genuineness that Andrew took to be real. “I know that it is a great secret, and I will always be grateful to you for taking me into your confidence.”

Andrew studied his friend’s expression, decided that Lord Glenfield appeared genuine, and then nodded, looking away. It had only been last Season that Lord Glenfield had accidentally discovered Andrew’s love of writing verse, though he had initially believed that it had been poetry sent to Andrew rather than Andrew writing it himself. It had been an awkward moment, but Andrew had ultimately decided that he would tell his closest friend the truth, given that they were the very best of friends and because he knew that he could trust him.

And I can trust him still.

“I presume that you are still pursuing that particular endeavor?”

Andrew nodded, glancing around him for fear that someone would overhear.

“Yes, I am.”

“And have you thought to publish it anywhere?”

Andrew blinked.

“Publish?”

“Yes, publish,” Lord Glenfield repeated with a smile. “I saw recently that The London Chronicle was seeking new articles to go into their publication. I am certain that, should you send your work there, it would be printed, and all of the ton would read it.”

Andrew quickly shook his head.

“I have no interest in having anyone from society reading my work.”

“Though,” his friend suggested with a smile, “you could send it in anonymously, could you not?”

Hesitating, the protest dying away on his lips, Andrew considered his friend’s suggestion.

“I – I suppose that I might.”

“It would be interesting to see the response from the ton, would it not?”

A corner of Andrew’s lips turned up.

“Or might it be that you would like to use my published work to elicit the attention of particular young ladies?” Seeing his friend flush and look away, Andrew laughed aloud. Lord Glenfield had always bemoaned his lack of ability when it came to writing sonnets and the like, though previously, they had always been written to garner the attention from young ladies for the sole purpose of their own entertainments rather than for stealing their hearts. Now, however, Andrew suspected that Lord Glenfield might wish to use the published work to read aloud to any young lady he had set his eyes upon and, given the way that his friend would not look at him, Andrew believed himself to be correct. “That is not a bad thing, my friend though, if you like, I could write you your own sonnets, with which you could entrance whichever young lady you set your mind upon.”

With a scowl, Lord Glenfield shook his head.

“Though I might find the written verse difficult, I cannot – and will not – use your work to engage the interest of any young lady, for that would be a falsehood,” he stated unequivocally. “I am quite serious about this, Kentmore. I will not have a young lady drawn to me who believes that I am capable of writing beautiful words of love and devotion when I have no gift in that whatsoever.”

“But all the same,” Andrew added, refusing to be dissuaded, “if my work was published, then you might be able to read it with great feeling and affection, drawing the young ladies of London to you.” He reached out his hands as he spoke, then pulled his hands in towards himself. “That would be a good thing, surely?”

His friend’s lips quirked.

“Mayhap,” he admitted, shrugging. “But you must first consider whether or not you will publish your work. Though I might want to use it for my own purposes, I can assure you that I believe that it is worthy enough, in its own right, to be published! I am also quite certain that the ton would think very highly of it and, no doubt, might be eager to hear more.”

Andrew considered this, then tilted his head.

“I suppose then that I could use it to my own advantage also,” he said, slowly, as Lord Glenfield frowned in obvious confusion. “I could take the poetry and read it to whichever young lady I was focusing on at the time, could I not?” He chuckled as Lord Glenfield rolled his eyes but grinned. “I might consider it. The London Chronicle, you say?” Seeing his friend nod, Andrew ran one hand over his chin, feeling himself grow more and more contented with the idea. “Then I think I shall. Thank you for that, Glenfield. I expect my first poem to be out amongst the ton very soon!”

‘ In fields of gold, where wildflowers throng,

Love’s gentle breeze whispers its song

As we walk, hand in hand, our embrace so sweet,

Our lips, our hearts, our lives, now meet.

A love, a flame that burns so bright,

Will guide us through the dark of night.

Our love, so strong, will forever shine,

A love so pure, so true, so divine.’

Andrew smiled to himself as he sat back in his carriage, his satisfaction continuing to grow as he considered each and every word. It had only been a short poem, yes, but it had been enough for him to send to The London Chronicle in the hope that they would publish it.

And publish it they had, albeit with the word, ‘Anon’ at the bottom, just as he had requested. He had been very cautious indeed in how he had gone about sending the poem into the Chronicle in the first place, taking it with him into the heart of London and, thereafter, paying a ragamuffin handsomely to have it delivered. The child would not know who he was so, therefore, there was not even the smallest suspicion that anyone would recognize him. This was just as he had desired, just as he had hoped for and, now, to see his work printed did bring Andrew a good deal of contentment.

I should thank Lord Glenfield for his suggestion, he thought to himself, as the carriage rolled its way toward St James’ Park. And mayhap send in another one very soon.

The carriage stopped and Andrew climbed out, ready to take a stroll through the park and see who he might engage in either conversation, or perhaps in something a little more intimate. Placing his hat on his head, he strode directly into the park, only to come to an abrupt stop.

How very strange.

There were clusters of ladies all standing about together, their heads bent forward as though they were whispering to one another. Andrew could not understand it, frowning heavily as he began to make his way towards one of the small groups, confused as to why so many young ladies were standing in such a way.

“A love so divine,” he heard one of them murmur, his heart quickening as he realized what it was that the lady was speaking of. “I do wonder who it is that this gentleman is writing about.”

“Mayhap it is a great secret,” said another, a wistfulness in her voice. “Mayhap he is much too overcome with love for her to be able to express it in any other way than this. Mayhap there is a reason that they cannot be together, and this is the only way for him to speak with her.”

A small, collective sigh ran around the group and Andrew, who had slowed his steps to a mere crawl to listen, grinned broadly, ducking his head so that the ladies would not see his expression. They were speaking of the poem, he realized, his heart suddenly soaring. They not only appreciated it, they thought well of it and, seemingly, were losing themselves in raptures about what was said within it - which was, Andrew considered, precisely what he had hoped for.

Though, a little voice said in his mind, you know nothing of love. All you speak of is imagined, all you write comes from what you believe love might be like. There is no truth in that.

With a shake of his head, Andrew dismissed that thought and, lifting his gaze, continued to walk through the park, taking in all of the small huddles of ladies who were eagerly reading the paper and the poem within it. His confidence bolstered, Andrew took his time as he wandered along the pathway, feeling a sense of pride and, indeed, a growing confidence within himself. Perhaps his work was more than satisfactory after all.