Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

Her father was quick to interrupt the exchange. “Why the sudden interest in newspapers, milord? I do hope you aren’t thinking of putting an ad in the Shropshire Bugle for a matched pair of high steppers or a pack of prime foxhounds.” Much amused by the notion, Simmonds burst into laughter.

Viscount Linsley, scion of privilege, heir to the Wrexham earldom—and all of ten years old—gave a rather weak smile. “Ha, ha, ha.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” echoed Lucy.

“In any case, I doubt your pin money would cover the cost of a racehorse or fancy curricle. So don’t be getting any ideas. Ha, ha, ha.” Still chuckling at his own joke, Lucy’s father finished inspecting a tray of pewter tankards. “Your father wouldn’t like it above half. High stickler, the earl is. As is quite proper for a gentleman of his exalted position. Let’s not give him any reason to regret your friendship with Lucy.”

Setting an earthenware jug on the counter, he poured each child a glass of lemonade. “So, you best be heading back to the manor after you finish this, else we’ll be having Withers rattling his saber in our faces.”

“Your father’s valet is a bit of an ogre, Scottie,” remarked Lucy.

Simmonds smiled. “Off ye go, lad,” he said, and then stepped outside to await the arrival of the Tunbridge Wells mail coach.

“Jem says Withers is always scowling, as if he had a bayonet sticking up…where the sun doesn’t shine,” added Lucy, once she was sure her father was out of earshot. She made a face. “Wherever that is.”

“Dunno,” said Prescott. “But don’t expect me to ask my tutor to explain it. Last time I repeated one of Jem’s sayings to him, I couldn’t sit down for two days.” He blew out his breath. “Withers is not a bad sort, I suppose. Father says it’s because he’s used to ordering soldiers around that he sounds so gruff.”

Lucy exaggerated a snarling growl.

“Between him and my tutor, I can’t ever step out of line. Not that they are cruel,”

added Prescott. “Just…strict.” His sigh ended in a bit of a sniff. “At least I have you to talk to. Even though you can be a real nit at times.”

Abandoning her earlier smugness, Lucy bit her lip. The occasional brangling aside, the two of them were best friends. “You still miss her a lot don’t you?”

Both Prescott and Lucy had lost their mothers within several months of each other. The Countess of Wrexham had fallen victim to the influenza epidemic, while Mrs. Simmonds had, along with her newborn infant son, succumbed to complications of childbirth.

“Yes. I miss her awfully.” Prescott swiped his sleeve across his eyes. “And Father never laughs anymore, and the Manor is always so quiet. I overheard the housekeeper say that we need a lady’s touch to add cheer to our lives. Mayhap she’s right, but…” He blew out his breath. “But I have to prevent Father from making a Big Mistake.”

“You know, you may end up in the suds if you go through with this plan,” warned Lucy. “If Wilkins the Wasp finds out about it, he’ll probably birch your backside so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a fortnight.”

“I know. And yet it’s worth a try.” Slanting a sidelong look, he asked, “Are you still willing to help? You might end up in trouble as well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, right. I’m naught but a silly girl, who can’t be counted on in a pinch. Let me ask you—did I squeal over who took Mr. Bowdon’s apples? Did I quail at putting the frog in Miss Haverstock’s sewing basket? Did I refuse to climb to the top of the elm tree to rescue your stupid cat?”

Prescott grinned.

After wiping her fingers on her skirts, Lucy held out her hand. “Did you bring it?”

Without a word, he reached into his pocket and brought out a neatly folded sheet of paper, properly sealed and franked.

“Excellent.” After examining the note, Lucy gave a nod of approval and slipped it into her sleeve. “Let’s go.”

“Y-you are sure you can do it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, you silly goose, we have to hurry. There isn’t much time.”

“What do you make of this?” The ink-stained clerk made a face and passed over a letter.

Mr. Josiah Hurley, the owner and editor of the Mayfair Gazette took a moment to read it. After adjusting his spectacles, he read it again.

“Hmmph.” The paper fell to the desktop.

“No doubt it’s a hoax, sir,” murmured the clerk. “Or some tulip of the ton engaged in a silly wager.” After cracking his knuckles, he reached out to take it and toss it into the waste bin. “Good Lord, you would think that Town gentlemen would have better things to do with their time than compose such blatantly ridiculous ads.”

Hurley quickly caught hold of the letter. “Not so fast, George.”

His assistant’s brows shot up in question.