Chapter Three

Wednesday, 26 April 1826

The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London

Ten in the morning

L audanum. I swear there must be laudanum in that tea.

Mary, who had been offered and had partaken of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s tasty beverage that morning, had found that it unexpectedly eased the trembling in her hands. They had arrived a bit early, but their hostess had greeted them warmly and sent for tea and biscuits. Mary had waved away the latter, her stomach far too tense to eat. She had, in fact, skipped breakfast as well. But now she wished had at least taken some of the dry toast from the sideboard as a low snarl accompanied the tightening in her belly.

The man who had entered and moved to stand at the right side of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s desk was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man Mary had ever seen. So beautiful she began to rise, only to have Kit’s hand on her shoulder hold her in the chair. Unruly curls, dark and shimmering with drops of rain, crowned his head. He stood not quite as tall as Kit, who could fill most doorways, but had a lean frame. Wide, gray-blue eyes, like the wild waves of the sea, highlighted sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and a strong chin. His well-made kit included a skirted indigo frock coat, a forest green waistcoat with silver embroidered pinwheels, and white buckskin breeches tucked into dark green boots.

Tight breeches, covering the muscular thighs of a man accustomed to riding stallions across the moors. How magnificent he would look on a hunt, racing across the fells of Kirkstone Abbey, face reddened by the cold, hair unkempt and wild in the wind.

Mary swallowed hard.

That maddening smile beneath Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s veil returned. “Lord Thaddeus, may I present Lady Mary Caudale and her brother, Richard Christopher Caudale, Eighth Duke Kirkstone. Your Grace, Lady Mary, this is Lord Thaddeus Ephraim Bolton, son of the Earl of Crookham.

Mary barely heard the words over the thud of her heart and an odd rushing sound in her ears. She blinked again, unable to find her voice.

“Lord Thaddeus.” Kit stepped forward, holding out his hand.

The young man looked a bit surprised at the offer, then took Kit’s hand with a firm grasp, even as he gave a slight bow from the waist. “Your Grace. It is an honor to meet you both.” Then those eyes moved to her. “My lady, I saw you yes—” He broke off and scrubbed a hand over his mouth, reddening his full lips. “My apologies for my appearance. It has begun to rain, and I am afraid the wind made away with my chapeau.”

Mary blinked again, her drifting imagination returning from the northern climes. And his southern hemisphere. “Your valet will be most distressed.”

He almost smiled. “As am I. It was one of my favorites.”

She straightened. “You are a dandy then?”

This time he did smile. “I am afraid most dandies have rather more resources than I do at the moment.”

Kit gave a low growl, probably at the mention of money. Mary did not care. “I have heard, sir, that such is a state of mind, not a matter of finances. A clever man can be inventive when the need arises. Are you a clever man?”

Those eyes flashed, and red blushes appeared across his high cheekbones. “I have been told I am. Are you a clever woman?”

“When I need to be. I have—”

Kit cleared his throat, and Mary broke off, biting her lower lip and dipping her head. She had been too forward, something Kit had warned her about. And Beth. “You are not in Yorkshire any longer, not at Kirkstone. You cannot speak your mind anytime you wish. It is not how things are done in Society.”

But were they not here, in this office, in this moment, precisely because she did not fit anyone’s idea of Society?

“My apologies,” she whispered.

Lord Thaddeus looked startled. And chagrined. He stepped forward. “No, it is—”

“We are here to discuss details.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured toward the unoccupied armchair. “Lord Thaddeus, please sit.”

He did. The blush in his cheeks had spread, and he remained silent.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon pulled three sheaths of paper from a drawer in her desk and handed one each to Lord Thaddeus and Kit, settling one in front of herself.

Mary waited, then realized no copy had been made for her. She clutched her hands together in her lap and pressed her back against the chair, determined to remain silent, no matter how much she desired to speak.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued. “I had my solicitor draw up a proposed marriage agreement. In addition to the usual terms there are provisions for His Grace to clear any debts currently held by Lord Thaddeus, although he would not be responsible for future ones. There will be a small dowry to cover initial expenses, and His Grace will cover the cost of a wedding breakfast, if one is desired. The married couple will share the Kirkstone London townhouse with the duke and duchess while they remain here and will continue to do so after they leave for India.”

She took a breath and flipped a page, as did they. “Once married, Lady Mary will have charge of the London home, sharing that with the dowager duchess if she is also in residence. Lord Thaddeus will have access only to Lady Mary’s resources—he will not have access to the Kirkstone estate in any way, and he is urged to develop resources of his own, beyond his family allowance.”

Another page turned. “All family matters, whatever their nature, will be kept confidential. There will be no outside discussions regarding finances, lineage, or personal possessions, including artwork and jewelry.” She looked up at Lord Thaddeus. “You have heirs.”

His mouth jerked. “None that I know of.”

Mary stared at the floor. Kit and Mrs. Dove-Lyon stared at him. After a tense moment, he muttered, “No.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon continued. “Any children born to either partner, in whatever circumstance, shall be acknowledged by both when confirmed by one and have the right to claim either family’s name with mutual agreement of all parties, without claim to resources of the same.”

Lord Thaddeus scowled. “What does that mean?”

Heat washed over Mary, and she chewed her lower lip. Please. Please.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon remained placid. “It means that if a by-blow shows up on your doorstep from a previous mistress, and you know for certain the child is yours, then you will acknowledge them as heir with a right to your name but not your assets unless by future agreement by both families.”

Lord Thaddeus let out a long sigh. “Ah. No worries there. Go on.”

Mary’s head snapped up. How could he be so certain?

Their hostess flipped another page. “The rest is minutiae.” She rested the document on the desk. “Take these home and read them again. These will be binding for the rest of your lives. We will reconvene tomorrow at this same time.”

They were dismissed, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood up. As if waiting for just this signal, a knock on the door preceded the entrance of two of her employees, one who led the men out. The other, a woman, waited as Mary stood, her knees still quivering.

“Lady Mary, a moment.”

The woman at the door gave a quick nod and exited, pulling the door closed. Mrs. Dove-Lyon came to her, touched her arm lightly. “Are you frightened?”

Mary hesitated, then nodded. “A bit.” She swallowed. “Terrified, in truth.”

“You still believe this is the right thing to do?”

“I believe I need to be less a burden to my brother and find a place. It is rather apparent the ton will not make that easy for me. Or even possible. It will help everyone for this to be settled.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon let out a long sigh. “Acquiescence is not always the best foundation for a marriage, but it is a start. But there is one more thing you should know.”

“Which is?”

“I saw your expression. Your surprise. And I know your question. With men of the Beau Monde, with their behavior so modeled on the unrelenting debauchery of the king, how could one man be certain he has no children wandering about the skirts of a former mistress?”

“Indeed.”

“You know I thoroughly investigated all three of the men I offered to you.”

“As you said.”

“I know everything there is to know about them. And in the case of Lord Thaddeus, I know there are no children because he has had no former mistresses. He is still very much in love with a woman he cannot have, who has long been married to another man. Lady Lydia Southworth, a bluestocking, the daughter of a baronet who refused to let them marry. Lord Thaddeus cannot have her, but neither can he forget her. There have been no others, and I doubt there would be, unless he marries. He is a hopeless dreamer who desires something he has been denied his entire life—a devoted family. Preferably with a woman he loves.” She gestured toward the contract on her desk. “He may be practical, as one must be in his position, but there is a hope in him that he still may achieve his greatest wish.”

Mary scowled, not quite following Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s thoughts.

The proprietress smiled. “My dear, Lord Thaddeus is a virgin.”

Wednesday, 26 April 1826

George Brothers’s rooms, Bloomsbury, London

Five in the afternoon

George paged through the contract again, pausing on some sections for yet a third time, his lips moving without a sound. Thad watched, trying hard not to leap to his feet and pace, or, at the least, pummel his friend into sharing his thoughts. Instead, he sat in one of the two wingback chairs in front of the fireplace, watching his friend in the other.

Thad had shared the news—and the contract—with his family at luncheon to mixed results, as if none of them took the matter with any seriousness at all. His father glanced at the first page of the contract, then handed it to Thad’s older brother, who had not looked at it at all, merely asking if this meant Thad would be moving out. His mother had smiled and murmured, “At least she is not an actress.” His youngest sister asked if he would still accompany her to the modiste.

When Thad had asked his father if the family solicitor should review the contract, the old man had sniffed. “I see no reason to pay him for something so inconsequential.”

Inconsequential. His son’s marriage to a duke’s sister.

“Perhaps your new father-in-law can find you something beneficial to do with your life.”

Thad had not bothered to explain that there was no father-in-law.

It had all been... unsurprising. Annoying, yes, but no surprise that Thad’s life meant less to them than the small payment due a solicitor. When he had mentioned this to George, his best friend had shrugged. “What did you expect? After all, they paid for your education in hopes you would meet rich friends who would get you out of the house.”

Finally George let out a long sigh and laid the papers on a table near his chair. He stared into the cold, gray fire grate a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought.

Thad looked around the room, fighting his impatience. George’s suite of rooms, rented after he developed an ongoing relationship with an actress from the Haymarket Theater, had become Thad’s second home over the past few years. He appreciated the dark wood and leather décor, the scents of tobacco, rum, whisky, and soap. George had developed the reputation as a carefree rogue, but he despised slovenly natures and had an unwavering preciseness about him when it came to the placement of furniture and items such as the mantel clock and a set of liquor bottles on a table near an escritoire in the far corner of the room.

“George—”

“This is your perfect angel, correct? From yesterday?”

“Yes, and she is more beautiful than I thought. Her eyes are completely enraptur—”

“A duke’s sister?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s wrong with her?”

Thad leaned back in his chair, a little stunned. “What do you mean?”

George faced him more fully and leaned forward. “Beautiful. Dowry. A duke brother with enough blunt to pay off your debt to the Lyon. So why isn’t she out doing the Marriage Mart? Balls. Soirees. Frequent visits to the modiste. What’s wrong with her that they would have to go to the Lyon’s Den?”

Thad’s mouth felt dry. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon said they needed her to marry before her brother left for India. He’s some advisor to a company, the government—I am not sure, somebody important. He and his wife will be there for a long time.”

“And there’s no one else who can escort her through a season.”

Thad tried to shake away the confusion. “Her mother has returned to the family estate, up near the Scottish border. Her brother’s in-laws, perhaps... George, what are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything, except that it’s odd. It’s unusual for a woman to be so desperate to marry, more so than just her brother leaving the country. What did your father say again?”

Thad stilled, closing his eyes. “He considered it inconsequential. His word. Did not want to pay our solicitor to review it.”

George cheeks flushed and he stood, crossing to the liquor bottles. He poured whisky into two glasses, downed the liquid in one and refilled it, then handed the other to Thad. He sat again, studying Thad. “You have to sign—or not—tomorrow?”

Thad sipped and nodded. “Ten.”

George downed his whisky. “Sign or not, just know I think you’re getting into more than you’ve bargained for.”

“How so?”

George set down the glass and picked up the contract, flipped two pages, then pointed to a paragraph. “This. I worked with my father on both my sister’s wedding contracts, and neither had something like this in them: ‘Any children born to either partner, in whatever circumstance, shall be acknowledged by both when confirmed by one and have the right to claim either family’s name with mutual agreement of all parties, without claim to resources of the same.’ What does that even mean?”

“They wanted to be sure I had no by-blows hiding in the hedges.”

“Then they don’t know you as well as you thought they did.”

Thad’s face grew warm. “George . . .”

George laid the contract aside. “What if that was not about your by-blows?”

The implication horrified Thad. “George! You can’t think—”

“I think you need to find out what’s truly going on. Go to your solicitor. I’ll pay for it. You may have to sign this tomorrow, but you need to know a great deal more about this woman before you stand before the vicar.”

“You are suggesting—”

“That your perfect angel may be with child.”