Chapter Nine

Friday, 28 April 1826

Kirkstone House

Five in the afternoon

M ary watched Lord Thaddeus Bolton from under half-lidded eyes as he and her brother took over the conversation, batting around words like “special license” and “archbishop.” Once again, no choice that lay before them was hers.

Rather fond , he said. He had grown rather fond of her.

After two days. Two conversations. When he supposedly remained in love with another woman.

A roiling ire began to build in her gut.

It was one thing to barter to marry a stranger, to accept an attachment based on financial and circumstantial reasons. Quite another to have someone proclaim an attachment based on emotions. What kind of man becomes enamored after two days? Did he or did he not still love that other woman?

“No wonder you are so deep in debt!” The room went silent as Mary stood and strode to the door as Lord Thaddeus scrambled to his feet. She paused as she reached for the doorknob. “Do you impetuously jump at every opportunity, no matter how risky it is? To leap without investigating? To plunge willy-nilly into everything, just because your heart—” Her voice broke, and Mary ran, her heels thudding on the carpet as she passed the staircase and dodged down a side corridor. She pulled open the heavy, glass-paned door at the end and burst into the small garden at the back of Kirkstone House.

She trotted down the four stone steps from to the gravel path that wound through the foliage, taking in deep gasps of air. Tears flooded down her cheeks as the tension from the last week, the loss of control, the fear of losing her child overwhelmed her. Sobs shook her shoulders as she sank down on a stone bench beneath a tall yew tree and covered her face with her hands.

“Lady Mary?”

She jerked straight, glaring at him. Red blotches shaded his cheeks, and his carefully coiffed hair had gone all awry, the curls on the end of the strands protruding in every direction. Mary wiped her eyes, feeling the tears soak through her gloves, then swallowed hard.

“I promise I meant no—”

“Lydia.”

He stilled, the color now leaving his face. “I beg your pardon.”

“You are supposed to be still in love with Lady Lydia Southworth.”

“How do you know—”

“Are you that fickle? That you can grow fond of me after only two days when you have loved her for years?”

Lord Thaddeus ran both hands through his hair, adding to the disarray of the locks, and causing his shirt to pucker from under his waistcoat. He looked up at the sky for several long moments. Finally he took a deep breath and looked back at her. “If you know about Lady Lydia, then you know that she is wed to another man.”

“Yes.”

“This was not a recent occurrence.”

Mary frowned. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had made it sound imminent. “No?”

He shook his head. “Lady Lydia is now a countess and has two children of her own. I have not seen her in more than five years because I could not bear it if she is not happy, and she is not mine to be concerned about. My love—my affection—for her will always be a part of my soul, but it is dormant... cold. That does not prevent her loss from being painful or for me to long for the kind of dreams I had built with her. To have a clever wife who could be my match in conversations over an evening fire. To build a family with the bonds and connections I have never felt in my own.”

He paused, and ran yet another hand through his hair, and Mary bit her lower lip as his disheveled nature grew wilder with each motion. He seemed to rumple merely standing before her.

“Lady Mary, the fondness I feel for you is that I have seen the possibilities, the potential, for building those dreams with you. You are bright and oh, so beautiful, and have so much promise. I saw you look at your child on that blanket, and I wanted to weep with joy at how you care for her.”

Tears burned in Mary’s eyes again, but this time her heart seemed to melt. “But I am not Lydia.”

He dropped to one knee in front of her, clutching one of her hands. “I know that better than anyone. You are Lady Mary, and I believe you will be a brilliant wife. I only hope I can be worthy of you.”

Mary felt her entire being crumple. No one had ever spoken such words of kindness, of devotion to her, and his eyes gleaned with more sincerity than she had ever seen. Her tears brimmed and overflowed, clogging her throat, and she reached out to caress his cheek with her free hand. “Impetuous fool.”

He smiled and lifted her other hand to kiss the back of it. “For you, I will be.” He stood, tugging her to her feet, then cupped her face in both hands. “You are correct. I do leap into wagers without considering the consequences. And as grateful as I am for your brother for clearing up my debt with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, there is another, greater one, that I must settle before we marry. I will not bring you into a marriage burdened with it. I want to prove to you that I can be more than that impetuous fool who does not consider others when he acts.”

His thumbs stroked her cheeks, and he lowered his head, his lips brushing hers with a feathery softness. Heat flooded Mary, and her stomach tightened as he explored her mouth with his own, tugging at her lower lip. He eased out of the kiss and traced her lips with one finger. “You should be kinder to these,” he whispered. “I have great plans for them.”

Mary’s knees buckled, and she leaned hard against him. He caught her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her head against his chest. He kissed the top of her head. “I will treat you, my lady, as you have never been treated. I swear it.”

Lord Thaddeus slipped from her embrace. “I will take care of this. I will be back tomorrow afternoon, and your brother and I will finalize the details.” He urged her to sit on the bench again. “I promise,” he murmured, then turned back toward the door into the house.

“Do not forget your hat.”

He paused and looked back, a broad smile on his face, then disappeared inside.

Mary wiped her eyes again, her gloves still damp, thinking over the last few moments. His absence made the garden even quieter, and she let the breeze, the fragrances from the trees and flowers wash over her, soothing her. Obviously, Kit and Beth had directed the man to the garden and had left them alone. Mary also knew that Kit must have looked even further into Lord Thaddeus than Mrs. Dove-Lyon, despite his earlier words of assurance in her office, or he never would have moved forward with this agreement—her brother had always been one of the more cautious men she had ever known. It was one of the reasons he had gone over the agreement so carefully with her once they brought it home, going over every detail, every clause—

Mary’s eyes widened. “Every clause,” she muttered, pushing up off the bench and heading back inside. She needed to talk to Kit.

Friday, 28 April 1826

Russell Court and Cleveland Row, near the Lyon’s Den

Quarter to midnight

“Hello, Thad.”

Thad slowed his stride, then halted as he turned toward the shadows of Russell Court, a small offshoot from Cleveland Row, the street that led to the Lyon’s Den. He saw nothing, but he knew that voice as well as his own. “Bully. You are a bit out of your territory.”

A scuffling of feet echoed out of the dark. “I’m surprised the driver didn’t deliver you closer to the Lyon’s door.”

“As he had picked me up close to the Rookeries, he became a bit skittish about traversing so far from the main traffic this time of night.”

“How cowardly of him. Were you looking for me?”

“I was. Now I know why I did not find you.”

“Surely you were not looking for me here. Not a place I’d frequent. Too many toffs.”

“And you are deathly afraid of the owner.”

A scoffed laugh. “Her wolves, more likely. Blighters are all former military and have no mercy at all.”

“The men and women guarding her establishment do have that reputation for how they treat miscreants and blackguards. Even toffs.”

A snort. “How about the toffs who owe her a great deal of money?”

“She has her ways.”

“So do I.” Bully Collins stepped into Cleveland Row, the streetlights illuminating his pudgy bulk, frayed woolen suit, and a flat cap atop long, shaggy hair. Behind him, three men emerged from the darkness, two of whom made the prime longshoremen on the docks appear small and weak. The other, a lean and wiry youth, had a cricket bat cradled in his arms and a twisted smile on his face. Bully’s runner.

“I am going to pay you.”

Bully shook his head. “Oh, Thaddeus, my boy, I wish I believed you.” He gestured toward the entrance of the Lyon’s Den. “But you are hardly the first toff to pay her before me. I need to send a message that such a hierarchy is not appropriate. So it is rather perfect that you showed up here.”

“I assure you—”

“Gentlemen.”

Thad ran, hoping to reach the Lyon’s Den and sanctuary before the runner caught him. He had only ten feet to go when he felt that bat strike him across his right shoulder and neck. Stumbling, Thad went down, his face slamming into the pavement as darkness fell.