Page 6 of How to Start a Scandal

She’d heard there would be beefsteaks with sautéed onions and a rich oyster sauce. How she loved a good beefsteak. It always made her recall the time she’d attended Lady Norrick’s supper party and had the grand idea to begin the Lady Observer.

In any event, any food would be preferable to crayfish in jelly, which was also rumoured to be served that evening. The poor creatures were heartily unappetising in such a plating where they hovered, boiled red and suspended in jelly, with their beady black eyes gazing out at those who would eat them. She shivered and hoped she did not sit near that plate.

For the time being, she surveyed the ballroom for a possible sighting of the Earl of Dalton. Gossip had indicated he would be in attendance.

Violet had not yet caught sight of his face in the crowd and found herself grateful for that small mercy. No, that was a lie. She was both grateful and disappointed. He was a charming man, enticing in every way she should find displeasing, but did not. No, she certainly did not.

Something in her chest gave a little twist, one she chose pointedly to ignore.

‘Lady Sarah has been rather popular with the gentlemen,’ a woman in a feathered turban whispered to the woman beside her.

Violet’s ears perked up at the conversation—a refreshing deviation to the direction of her unwanted thoughts.

‘I hear she is the newest pupil under that woman’s tutelage.’

Violet feigned interest at something across the room and stepped closer towards the ladies.

‘How a courtesan ever put herself in a place of edifying the young, impressionable ladies of the ton is beyond my realm of comprehension,’ the woman with the turban replied in a haughty tone. ‘It’s disgraceful.’

Unfortunately, two ladies strode in front of Violet, engaged in a very enthusiastic, very loud, conversation on the latest trend of spencers. With a ripple of irritation, Violet abandoned her attempt to overhear the conversation about the newest student in Lottie’s care.

For though they had not mentioned the courtesan by name, Violet knew her well. Or at least, knew of her. After all, it had been her own cousin Lady Eleanor—now the Duchess of Somersville—who had first gone to Lottie for assistance in wresting herself free of the dreaded moniker of Ice Queen.

After the scandal of her instruction was made known, Lottie’s clandestine lessons became quite popular and very sought after, ironically by the very people who had bemoaned their affectations of its vulgarity.

For all the repugnance pervading the topic of ‘Lottie’s Ladies’ as they were called, rumours continued to spread of noble daughters seeking her instruction. What was more, it was not unheard of for ladies to spread their own false tales of attending such tutelage when they had not, in the hopes of drawing the attention of male suitors.

Because the male suitors were interested in Lottie’s Ladies. Very, very interested. To such an extent that any woman who was even said to be attending those unmentionable lessons was almost always married within a month’s time.

The curiosity of what possibly could transpire in those meetings with the famed courtesan briefly flitted through Violet’s mind when an idea slammed into her.

What if she went to see Lottie herself? Not to try to obtain a husband, but to glean information for an article. No, an exposé.

The Lady Observer was a column read by some of the ton, but not all. However, if Violet penned a story revealing what truly went on in Lottie’s parlour, the Lady Observer held the potential of becoming a tremendous success. It would propel the Society Journal’s subscriptions and they would pay her significantly more. She would make the Society Journal esteemed enough for every household to purchase one.

Which would give her the income and purpose that would hopefully impress her father to the point she would no longer be required to choose between such unsavoury options.

Violet was so overcome with delight at her idea, she did something she never allowed herself to do on an ordinary night at a ball. She went to the refreshment table to permit herself a small cake. Well, not so small.

In truth, she selected the largest one on the platter. One with a beautiful marzipan rose adorning its sugary frosted top. Before she could talk herself out of the indulgence, she plucked it from the tray and popped it into her mouth.

‘Lady Violet.’

The voice made her go still. It was unfamiliar and it was masculine.

She pressed her lips together to contain the cake and covered her mouth as she hurriedly chewed.

Of all times for someone to approach her. A man, no less.

Heavens.

‘Forgive me,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

She shook her head and waved her hand as if it was no bother. It was, though. Very much. She never allowed herself those small dainty treats from the refreshment table. Indeed, she’d hear about it from her mother on the way home.

She hastily swallowed what she’d intended to savour, turned towards the gentleman who had so rudely curtailed her enjoyment and froze. Even the cake lodged itself uncomfortably midway down her suddenly dry throat.

Mr Sinclair.