A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 49 - Forty Nine
Hyde Park at two o’clock was not merely a park; it was a stage.
The gravel paths of the Promenade were the runways. The carriages were the props. And the members of the ton were the actors, each playing a role in the grand theater of Society.
Rowan Hamilton guided his high-perch phaeton through the wrought-iron gates at Stanhope Corner. He sat high above the crowd, gripping the reins with brown leather gloves. The four bay horses moved in perfect unison, their coats gleaming like polished mahogany in the afternoon sun.
He looked every inch the Golden Duke. His hat was tipped at the perfect angle. His driving coat was impeccably tailored. His expression was one of cool, detached mastery.
Inside, however, he was numb.
He scanned the crowd. It was a sea of pastel parasols and tipping top hats. He nodded mechanically to people he knew.
"Lord Winhall," he murmured, tipping his hat.
"Lady Jersey," he acknowledged with a slight incline of his head.
He wasn’t looking for them. He was looking for a specific shade of blue.
He reached the stretch of path that ran alongside the Serpentine. The water glittered under the sunlight. Ducks paddled lazily near the bank, oblivious to the fact that they were about to become a topic of conversation for a Duke.
There.
About fifty yards ahead, walking near the water’s edge, were two figures.
One was a majestic ship of purple silk—Lady Farrington.
The other was a delicate cloud of blue muslin—Lady Celine.
They were walking slowly, twirling their parasols. They were clearly waiting.
Rowan felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. This was it. The "Public Display of Interest."
He tightened his grip on the reins. He guided the horses toward the edge of the path, slowing them from a trot to a walk.
"Easy," he murmured to the leaders.
He brought the phaeton to a halt exactly ten feet from where the ladies were walking. It was a perfect stop. The wheels didn’t skid. The horses didn’t toss their heads.
He looked down from his high perch.
"Lady Farrington," Rowan called out. His voice carried clearly over the noise of the park. "Lady Celine."
The ladies stopped. They turned with practiced surprise.
"Your Grace!" Lady Farrington exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest. "What a delightful coincidence!"
It was not a coincidence. Everyone knew it was not a coincidence. But the script demanded they pretend.
"A happy accident indeed," Rowan said. He wrapped the reins around the brake handle and prepared to descend.
A groom jumped down from the back and held the horses’ heads. Rowan climbed down from the high seat. He landed on the gravel with a solid thud.
He walked over to them. He took off his hat.
"Good afternoon," he said.
Celine curtsied. She looked lovely. The fresh air had put real color in her cheeks, and the blue ribbon in her hair matched her eyes perfectly.
"Good afternoon, Your Grace," she said softly. She looked up at him through her lashes. "You drive very well. The horses are magnificent."
"Thank you," Rowan said. "They are a new team. I am still... getting used to them."
He fell into step beside her. Lady Farrington, knowing the rules of the game, slowed her pace slightly, allowing the young couple to walk a few feet ahead. She was close enough to chaperone, but far enough to allow for "intimacy."
Rowan braced himself. He prepared himself for the ducks. He prepared himself for vapid comments about the weather or the ribbons on a bonnet. He prepared to be bored.
"I was reading the Times this morning, Your Grace," Celine said suddenly. " That was before your arrival though."
Rowan blinked. He looked down at her. "The Times, Lady Celine?"
"Yes," she said. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were clear and serious. "I was reading the report on the textile riots in the North. It is quite distressing, is it not?"
Rowan stumbled slightly. He recovered quickly. This was not the conversation he had expected.
"It is," Rowan agreed, shifting gears. "The industrialization of the mills is creating a great deal of displacement. The weavers are desperate."
"Desperate men do desperate things," Celine said thoughtfully. "But simply sending in the militia seems... short-sighted. If the Crown does not address the root cause—the price of bread and the lack of a living wage—the unrest will only spread to London."
Rowan stared at her.
She wasn’t talking about ribbons. She was talking about socio-economic policy. And she was making sense.
"You are well-informed," Rowan said, genuine surprise coloring his tone. "Most young ladies find such topics... unpalatable."
Celine smiled. It wasn’t a giggle. It was a small, wry smile.
"Most young ladies are taught that having an opinion is unpalatable," she corrected gently. "But my father believes that ignorance is a luxury we cannot afford, even in a drawing room. Do you disagree, Your Grace?"
Rowan felt a spark of interest. It wasn’t the fiery, combative spark he felt with Delaney, but it was a steady, intellectual warmth. She was challenging him.
"I agree entirely," Rowan said. "Ignorance is dangerous. And I believe the Corn Laws are artificially inflating the price of grain, which is exacerbating the issue. Until the tariffs are lifted, the weavers will starve."
"Precisely," Celine nodded. "Though Lord Liverpool would argue that protecting the landowners is paramount to the stability of the economy."
"Lord Liverpool," Rowan said dryly, "has never had to buy a loaf of bread with a weaver’s wage."
Celine looked at him. Her blue eyes sparkled with intelligence.
"I see we share a similar view on justice, Your Grace," she said. "That is... refreshing. I was worried you might be one of those peers who believes the poor exist solely to add texture to the landscape."
Rowan laughed. It was a real laugh this time.
"I assure you, Lady Celine, I take my responsibilities seriously. My tenants in Hampshire are treated fairly."
"I should like to hear about your estate management someday," Celine said. "I have some ideas about crop rotation that I read in a French agricultural journal."
Rowan looked at her.
"It seems I have found her" He thought to himself.
