“I hear he has fits. And worse, he is quite hideously disfigured with scars.”
“La! That cannot be true! Just look at him; he is a god!” Another collective sigh.
“Well, at thirty and five it is high time he married!”
“Don’t waste your energy. Lord Devon has never paid particular attention to a lady in all the time I have been his neighbor.”
“He must entertain himself in London, then.” The whispers turned to hisses.
“I heard he keeps his mistress here, right in his own rooms!”
Sophia bit back a groan as she heard, “No!” and “Shameful!” and an indignant, “Well, who is she?”
The collective swish of petticoats meant they all turned to leer at her, and Sophia resisted the urge to give them a salacious wink that meant, Yours truly, girls.