Chapter Six

Thursday, 27 April 1826

Kirkstone House, Mayfair, London

Quarter to eleven in the evening

M ary watched Mina, the sweet infant’s face peaceful in sleep, the golden curls around her face mussed and slightly damp. Unable to sleep with her thoughts wrapped in spirals around Lord Thaddeus Bolton, Mary had slipped into the nursery, seeking solace in the three beautiful children who slumbered here, lost in their dreams.

Do infants dream? Mary watched as Mina pursed her lips and whimpered but settled right away with a deep sigh. Mary too released a long, slow breath, enamored by the pure loveliness of this child.

Officially Lady Catherine Aminta Elizabeth Caudale, the entire ton thought the girl to be the daughter of a duke, born within wedlock despite rumors to the contrary. A tale Beth had devised to preserve Mary’s reputation, to veil her foolishness and her naiveté. A tale Kit had readily agreed to in order to mask his own guilt for leaving Mary alone, isolated, and vulnerable after their father’s death. A loneliness that saw Mary turning to a profligate vicar, a man who had seen her not as a lover but a path to the aristocracy.

She still felt that shame deep into her bones.

But though the memories haunted her, the result had been this glorious child, a gift from God himself. While Mary could not claim her child as her own, she would always be grateful for this beautiful life she had watched grow over the past eight months. From the first attempts to push up to the most recent grabbing at toys and babbling, Mina seemed determined to explore her world. Her slobbery “mamamamama,” however, had not been aimed at Mary nor Beth but Nanny, which made Mary’s heart ache.

The words of Lord Thaddeus haunted her. How could the ton be so inured to their children? Or perhaps it was that way only among some families. Beth’s parents seemed extraordinarily proud of and affectionate toward their four children, supporting Lord Robert through his scandal and Beth through this wild concoction of a tale. They knew the truth, of course, but family secrets seemed sacrosanct among the Kennet clan.

Was Lord Thaddeus’s family that cold and unfeeling toward him? The man was clever and witty, as well as being handsome beyond reason. Why would they be so unfeeling about his prospects? Mary began to ache a bit for him, this man who obviously found more solace in gambling with his friends than in his own home and family. No wonder he found himself in so much debt.

A low murmuring caught Mary’s attention, and she looked at the low cot near Mina’s crib, where one of the other children of this tale lay asleep. Mattie and her brother Joshua—in a separate crib against the far wall—had been left orphaned when their mother died, and Beth and Kit had taken them in, almost without question. They saw the children needed a home, and they would not ever sleep again if they let them go to an orphanage.

Everything they had done had been to protect these children. To protect Mary. And everything had moved smoothly.

Until the appointment to India. And all their quiet plans had scattered. Mary understood why it had happened. Beth’s father, the Duke of Kennet, had wanted to make sure his new son-in-law had the best options possible for growth and power in Parliament. This appointment had been part of that. Beth had long wanted to visit India, and Kit wanted to take her.

Mary understood it... but understanding did not resolve her feeling of being suddenly left out of the equation. Again. She had tried to stay quiet about it, but then the rumors had started and her mother had left in the face of those—almost screeching “I warned you!” as she departed. Mary and Kit both had horrible tempers, and her loneliness flared one night over a late supper, and brother and sister had screamed at each other for fifteen minutes.

The appointment at the Lyon’s Den happened two days later.

Once again, they were trying to circumvent the natural order of things.

Which now terrified Mary. They had created a house of falsehoods as fragile as fine china.

Even more so now that she had lied to Lord Thaddeus Bolton, who—in the end—seemed a reasonable chap. Certainly amusing to talk to, and not at all intimidated by her knowledge or way of viewing the world. Even more, Mary had felt warm and comfortable in his presence, and his gasp of surprise and wonder when she had taken his arm had made her chest tighten with a desire she had never felt before—certainly not with the vicar.

If all went according to plan, he would be her husband.

She had to tell him.

Even if their house of lies crumbled around them, leaving her to the mercy of an unknown future.

Thursday, 27 April 1826

The Lyon’s Den

Quarter past eleven in the evening

“What did you find out?” George, his coat off and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, stood on his right foot in a corner of the gaming floor of the Lyon’s Den. He held out his left leg before him, a scuttle of coal dangling from his ankle. The longer he held it, the more the bets around him grew.

“What do you know about Clydesdales?”

His foot wavered and George almost lost balance, but he persevered. A snarl of dissatisfaction moved through the cluster of men around, but the bets continued. “I know that anything out of Scotland is dodgy.”

“That’s rather bigoted of you.”

“Have you ever been to Scotland? Everything north of Manchester is suspicious.”

“I thought your father had mills in Leeds. And an estate between them.”

“Exactly my point. You haven’t been. I have. Dodgy, the lot of them.”

“They are workhorses. A recent breed, apparently. Bred from Flemish stallions. Larger than most.”

George’s balance wavered again, but he caught himself. “And exactly why are we discussing workhorses?”

“Lady Mary’s brother, the duke, bought two for their estate. She is quite enamored of them. Of their beauty and power.”

“Lovely. She likes horses. Does she smell like hay and manure?”

“Hardly. She smells like lemon water and rosemary.”

“What’s the time?”

Thad looked down at his pocket watch, with which he had been timing George’s bet. “Fifteen minutes.”

“This is starting to hurt like the devil. What was the bet on seventeen minutes?”

“Fifty pounds for anything over fifteen. Next bet is at eighteen.”

With a deep sigh, George set down the scuttle and motioned to the men around them. “That’s the call. Anyone who had less than fifteen, pay up. Over fifteen, collect your winnings.”

Thad shook his head, as George collected and distributed the money, taking in more than three hundred fifty pounds from the men betting against him, paying out only one hundred to those who had wagered George could hold the scuttle longer than fifteen minutes.

Unlike his attempts to balance steins of ale on his head, George had worked the scuttle of coal wager many times before. There were always men on the floor who had not witnessed it, had no clue that as an avid rider, George had legs like steel braces. He also waited until late in the evening to run it, with all the men were well into their cups, eager to lose money on unusual bets, the odder, the better. George’s specialty.

George set the scuttle next to the wall and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. He pointed to a nearby table and waved a server over and snagged two pints of the tray. He set one in front of Thad as they dropped into chairs. “So your perfect angel likes fruits, herbs, and big horses? Sounds promising for the bed play.”

“Crude. She is remarkably clever, possibly more so than Lydia.”

“She is not Lydia. Did you discover any other deep secrets? Other than the horse thing.”

Thad drank, trying to decide how to phrase what he had learned from Lady Mary in the park. After he had summarized their conversation, George leaned back, studying his friend.

“Do you believe her to be truthful?”

“The women did treat her with disdain. I cannot imagine her making up such rumors. Why? What are you thinking?”

George sipped his ale. “That perhaps there is truth to the rumor. She would hardly be the first young lady of the ton to slip, to have a child reared by relatives as their own. It would explain why they turned to the Lyon for help. And it makes more sense than her brother wanting her married so that he can traipse off to India and leave her behind.”

“I do not see why that could not be a legitimate concern. He and his wife are going to India. Their home is already littered with packing crates.”

“Yes, but there are alternatives to marrying her off. She could go with them. She could return to her mother and wait until next season. She could move in with his wife’s family, which I happen to know is large with several big houses, and any number of women who enjoy balls and other feminine folderol. There are options.”

“‘Feminine folderol.’ You are never getting married.”

“May God hear your prayer, my friend.”

“Did you send your spies out?”

George plucked his coat from a nearby chair and removed his snuffbox. “I did. They should report back in a day or so. I suspect they will have heard the same rumors Lady Mary mentioned, but as their sources will be servants and shopkeepers, I expect they will dig deeper.” George inhaled the snuff, set the box aside, and rolled down his sleeves. He pulled cuff links from a pocket and snicked them into place. “Have you had supper?”

“Nary a taste.”

George stood and slipped on his coat, then he grabbed Thad’s arm and turned him toward the main entrance of the Lyon’s Den. “Let us adjourn and find a hearty repast then. I also want to hear your impressions of His Grace, the Duke of Kirkstone. I have a bet concerning him at Campion’s, and I wish to know how far off the mark I may be.”