Chapter Four

Thursday, 27 April 1826

The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London

Ten in the morning

A s the clock in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office chimed the hour of ten, the weight that had settled on Mary’s shoulders the last twenty-four hours felt like a burden not even two of the best workhorses at Kirkstone Abbey, their family estate, should have to bear. It ate at her mind and her soul, and a low anger had begun to brew deep inside as she wished to be free of all this. She shifted in the armchair as Kit paced behind her, a growly hound eager for the hunt.

So much had changed in so little time. Six months before, Mary had been a disgraced younger sister who had survived the worst of trials. She then found herself surrounded by two loving and devoted families, her only concerns being her daughter, Mina—who spent most of her time with a nanny—and new gowns for Mary’s upcoming debut. Then, at Christmas, Kit had received a vital position, a royal appointment, that would be taking him and Beth and their two wards to India. Upon hearing that news, their mother, who had come to London after the grand Christmas ball at the country estate of the Duke and Duchess of Kennet, had fled back to Kirkstone, unwilling to face alone the pressure of a Society season with Mary, despite all the previous claims to the contrary.

Mary should not have been surprised. Her mother had long had a core of disapproval for almost everything in her life, including her children, the result of an arranged marriage with a man who lived far from her home and family in Wales. But Mary had been relying heavily on the guidance of her mother as she prepared for her debut, and the return of the dowager duchess to the north had pulled up one of Mary’s anchors, leaving her a bit adrift and more than a little angry.

Then her second anchor began to shift in the sand. Beth, who had been completely engaged in helping Mary prepare for her launch into Society, had suddenly faced not only the prospective move to India, but also the discovery that she was with child.

Then the rumors about Mary and Mina began to fly amongst the ton , before the first invitations of the season could be sent. Beth’s friends, who had welcomed them all back to London with open arms, shuttered their doors. Beth, now stressed beyond reason, had no energy for the battle, and Kit remained—to put it politely—clueless about the ways of the ton.

Mary’s safe and secure world shattered into flinders as she faced the prospect of either sacrificing her season—and possibly her reputation—to return north and to her scowling mother, or remaining in London alone at the gracious mercy of Beth’s parents and the disdain of the Beau Monde. And while the Duke and Duchess of Kennet seemed to be nice people, from what Mary knew of them, depending on strangers felt intimidating at best, terrifying at worst.

Then, less than a week ago, when Kit had bemoaned leaving his sister alone, with his departure to his new appointment in India encroaching, one of his new London friends had suggested the Lyon’s Den. At the time, helping alleviate some of Kit’s responsibilities had seemed the right thing to do. Now it felt as if Mary were leaping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

The clock finished its chiming, and Mrs. Dove-Lyon slid a cup and saucer toward her. “It will brighten your spirits.”

Mary sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Perhaps he will not come.”

Kit paused in his pacing snarled. “He had better.”

“He will. Lord Thaddeus is not always punctual, but he is never negligent.”

As if he had heard the words, Lord Thaddeus entered, breathless and flush-faced, followed by a frustrated-looking member of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff.

“My apologies.” He nodded to each of them. “Your Grace. Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Lady Mary.” He carried a rolled sheath of papers and gestured with them toward the door, gasping for air. “I have come from my solic—”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon pointed at the chair. “For pity’s sake, man. Sit and calm yourself.” She waved the staff member out and motioned for him to close the door.

Lord Thaddeus hesitated, then sat, and Mary straightened, amusement lifting a touch of her burden. Again, he had no hat. “Did you run all the way from your solicitor’s? Or have you been thrown by an over-whipped horse?” She glanced at the top of his head. “Perhaps that is what happened to today’s hat.”

Lord Thaddeus stared at her, taking in several long deep breaths. “I would never—” Gasp. “Never whip a horse. Magnificent creatures that should be—” Gasp. “Encouraged and prodded.” He let out a slow exhale. “Not whipped.”

“Then I should introduce you to our Highland Ponies. They are sure-footed and placid but with a singular lack of urgency, even on a hunt.”

He fell silent, those blue-gray eyes studying her. “You have Highland Ponies?”

“An entire herd.”

“Do you whip them?”

Her eyebrows arched. “No. They have taught me patience, if nothing else. My father adored them.”

“Do you?”

“Enduringly.”

He swallowed, then ran a hand through the dark strands of his hair, all of which had gone wildly astray during his dash to the Lyon’s Den. Perhaps his top hat had landed in a gutter along the way. Taking a deep breath, he nodded then turned to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “I would like to sign the agreement but with an amendment.”

He unrolled the sheath of papers still clutched in his fist and handed a single page to each of them... including Mary.

She blinked at it. She had not been given the contract to review until she and Kit had returned home. But this man had brought her a copy of whatever he wished to add, a gesture that she found oddly endearing. She forced herself to look down at the page.

Pursuant to the terms of the above agreement, all parties consent to two additional items:

1) the terms of the agreement will be kept silent for a period of two weeks, with no details shared beyond the parties herein;

2) a courtship period of two weeks, to take place prior to the reading of the banns, during which the above proposed bride and groom be allowed to visit or correspond with each other daily.

At the end of that time period, these same parties will mutually agree to either the completion of the above terms or that the agreement is hereby null and void.

An indication for the signatures of Lord Thaddeus and Kit lay below that last line.

Mary chewed her lower lip.

Behind her, Kit let out a low growl. “Is this some kind of prank?”

Lord Thaddeus spread his arms wide, looking from Kit to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “I am only requesting two weeks. Two weeks for us to get acquainted. Two weeks for it to appear like a normal courtship.”

Two weeks to figure out why I want to marry in a hurry.

“Absolutely not. I will not—”

“Sign it.”

Silence settled between them, and Kit stepped forward, facing her. “Mary—”

“Sign it.” She tried to keep her voice firm, a deep fury building within her. To be so out of control, so responsible for... everything. Time for it to be over. “It is a fair request.”

Kit’s eyes glistened, the muscles in his jaws tightening. “Mary, he could back—”

She leaned forward and whispered, her words harsh. “Sign it. Sign the contract. Sign the amendment. Pay Mrs. Dove-Lyon her fee and his debt. If he reneges, he will owe it to you. That’s already in the agreement, is it not?” She glanced at Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

“It is.”

“Then let us be done with this.”

Kit shook his head. “I do not think—”

Mary’s rage flooded over. “Stop!” She stood, facing her brother. “Since our father died, you have seen me humiliated at every turn. By that vicar, by your abandonment, by Mother—who has now left us to our own devices—by everything that’s happened, and now I’m a burden to you, keeping you from pursuing your place in government, ‘oh, I cannot do that, I have my sister, I cannot, she needs her season, needs to find a hus—’” She threw her reticule at him, which he caught in a clumsy grasp. “Enough! We have our solution! Bloody sign it! ”

Thad stared at Mary, astonishment freezing him in place. The fire in her words, which had started with a smolder in those deep-brown eyes, had emerged into a volcanic declaration that seemed to release months of frustration and anguish.

Pain .

The pain of being ignored, of being thought less than worthy, of being thought a burden. An afterthought to everyone else’s life. A pain Thad felt deep in his soul.

In the rigid silence that followed, he stood, reminding himself that a gentleman always stood when a lady did. He then reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out his copy of the original agreement, turned to the signature page, and smoothed it flat on the desk. “Madam, do you...” He gestured at the contract.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who continued to study Lady Mary, nodded, then pulled from the bottom drawer of her desk a narrow tray holding an inkbottle and two sharpened quills. Thad reached for a quill, flipped open the top on the bottle, and sketched his name at the bottom of both papers. Then he straightened and faced the lady who had inadvertently sparked something buried inside his heart. His perfect angel had become a magnificent warrior.

The duke and his sister continued to glare at each other. Lady Mary’s fists, clenched at her side, trembled, and her brother’s face had paled except for two spots of red high on his cheekbones.

Thad cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, Your Grace, but may I call on Lady Mary this afternoon at three?”

They both snapped toward him, and Lady Mary blinked first. “What did you say?”

Thad sniffed and straightened his shoulders. “May I call at three, or is that too early?”

She blinked as if emerging from sleep. “I—I do not—” She turned to her brother.

After a moment, the duke muttered, “Oh, bloody hell,” and gestured for the quill. Mrs. Dove-Lyon passed it to him, and he made quick work of signing both pages. He straightened, then looked from Thad to Mary. “Three should be suitable.”

Thad bowed to them, then to the Lyon. “Three it is, then.”

He left the room, squelching a cry of exhilaration until he had exited the club and taken several long strides down the pavement.

That fire!

Those curves . . .

Thad’s steps slowed as his mind lingered on Lady Mary’s sensuous form, with her high, rounded breasts, and hips that could bring a man pleasure for years. He had a sudden image of what it would be like to release her hair from its bonds, to let his fingers drift through the soft strands. What a surprise she had been to his resignation regarding this agreement.

He could not wait to know more.

Lady Mary had barely turned eighteen, and when he had heard her age from Mrs. Dove-Lyon, he had expected the same kind of willowy and sedate debutante that he had avoided since his mother had dragged him to his first ball eight years ago, trying desperately to marry him out from under her roof. But even then the slight butterflies of the ton left him feeling empty, bereft, as if he had eaten a supper of clouds and nonsense. They talked of nothing substantial and seem to disappear completely when not dancing or flirting.

His parents had tossed aside his comments with a blithe, “Of course, they do not discuss anything in depth. Women do not do that. They are looking for husbands, not business partners.”

But wasn’t that what a ton marriage was? A business arrangement?

Then he had met Lydia and knew his parents’ comments to be lies. There were true women of substance out there. Perhaps he could never be with Lydia, but Thad had to believe she did not exist in isolation. There had to be others. He had made up his mind to wait.

And today Thad had a glimpse that perhaps the waiting would be rewarded.

Thad found George near the main ring in the boxing salon of Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium, placing a bet in favor of a fighter who looked as if he had never met a lime, lemon, or orange. His skeletal frame and bumpy joints did not project a great deal of promise.

The blue smoke of a plethora of cigars and cheroots hung in the air around the ring, and a mug and a bottle of whisky sat at George’s feet. He shooed a gambler from the chair next to his and gestured for Thad to sit as he marked bets in a small notebook with a rough pencil. “What did the solicitor say?”

Thad sat down. “He agreed with you. Drew up a quick amendment. And I owe you ten pounds, by the way. He only charged five.”

George’s gaze remained on the fighter, now warming up. “Keep it. Did they sign?”

“They did. And . . . George . . .?”

“Yes?”

Thad clenched his fists, shaking them in front of him. “She is glorious!”

George slowly turned to face Thad, drawling out his name. “Thad...”

“I am going to see her at three. I have two weeks to figure out if this will work.”

“She is not Lydia.”

Thad stopped, staring at George. “Why would you say that?”

“Because the last time I saw you like this, it was Lydia. You don’t even know this girl.”

Thad opened his hands and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I know. But she is fiery and caring, and, I suspect, rather intelligent.”

George peered at him. “How long were you there?” He glanced at the top of Thad’s head. “And where is your hat?”

“At the solicitor’s. I think. I’m not sure. We were not there long, but she loves horses, and she stood up to her brother when he balked at the amendment, and...”

George’s eyes narrowed. “And what?”

“Um. I caught her staring at my thighs.”

The bark of laughter from George startled even the fighters in the ring. “Well, that shows promise. What do you plan to do with her today at three?”

“I thought perhaps a walk in the park.”

“That indicates a serious interest in the lady. Don’t be surprised if you get a lot of odd looks and questions. And I’ve got an appointment as well.”

“With whom?”

“A butcher I know. Da used to do a lot of business with him, and he provides meat to a lot of the finest houses. Knows all the cooks and housekeepers and thus all the on dit about the ton . If there are any rumors about your girl, he’ll know... or be able to ferret them out.”

They both turned their attention to the ring. The gong sounded and the fighters moved into position.

“Do not dig too deep yet,” Thad said. “We should become more acquainted.”

“Just being prepared. Remember that knowledge is worth its weight in gold.”

In the ring, the bigger fighter took a shot, a hefty right cross. The scrawny fighter ducked, spun, and came up from underneath with an upper cut that stunned his opponent. The larger man stumbled backward, then his knees quaked, and he sat down hard. Ricketts Boy danced around, fists in the air, as a cluster of grumbling men moved toward George.

Thad let out a low whistle. “You knew.”

George grinned. “Francis Bacon said it. ‘Knowledge itself is power,’ my friend. Never forget it. And stop forgetting your hats.”