“Shall we go to your grandfather now?” she said in a soft, gentle voice.
His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. The scar that slashed his temple glowed white. Then he shook his head in disbelief. “This is madness,” he muttered.
Without waiting for her answer, he turned on his heel and strode away.
CHAPTER THREE
LONDON, WINTER 1815
THREE YEARS LATER …
The rap of the chairman’s gavel called the meeting to order. The Duke of Montford lifted his gaze from the agenda he’d been perusing and turned his attention to the collection of aristocrats assembled around the vast, polished mahogany table.
The winter meeting of the Ministry of Marriage was in session.
Inwardly, Montford sighed. These gatherings seemed to come closer and closer together as the years wore on.
There was Lady Arden, with that sparkle in her eye that always spelled trouble for someone—usually for him. Oliver, Lord deVere, appeared to labor under some sort of frustrated fury. But then, didn’t he always?
DeVere slid a glance at Montford, then looked away, scratching his whiskered face. Like his warrior forebears, deVere was big, fierce, and dark. A remarkably hirsute man, he needed to shave twice daily to avoid looking like a ruffian. He seldom shaved more than once, however.
The chairman cleared his throat. “We have a lot to get through this afternoon.” He glanced at the agenda in his hand. “The first item concerns the betrothal of Lady Rosamund Westruther to Griffin deVere, Earl of Tregarth.”
The elderly Lord Ponsonby started from his customary abstraction. In his thread of a voice, he said, “
Eh?
What’s that you say? Never tell me the old earl is dead? Well, well,” he added placidly, “I make no doubt he is burning in Hell.”
Unable to resist, Montford met Lady Arden’s gaze. Her eyes danced with suppressed mirth.
Montford responded, “The fourth earl has been dead for more than a year, Lord Ponsonby. As to his current whereabouts, I would not venture to guess.”
“Your Grace,” said Lady Arden in her clear, cool voice, “are we to believe that this engagement between Griffin, Lord Tregarth, and Lady Rosamund Westruther still stands? Lady Rosamund has been out these two years and might have expected to be a married lady by now. If Lord Tregarth cannot see his way clear to tying the knot, then I propose we—”
“He will tie the knot, damn you!” Lord deVere leaned forward, shooting a furious glare at her from beneath bushy brows.
DeVere didn’t heed the shocked gasps from the ladies, or the chairman’s admonishment to mind his language. With a pugnacious thrust of his chin, he added, “The wedding date is set.” He smacked the table with his fist as if it were a gavel. “Next item.”
Unabashed by deVere’s bullishness, Lady Arden turned her wide brown eyes on Montford. “Is that true, Your Grace?”
Montford’s gaze locked with deVere’s in a silent communication. DeVere’s expression was fierce, but was there also a hint of a plea in those black eyes? Not that a plea from deVere would move Montford to help him. The duke had his own reasons for wishing the alliance to go ahead without further interference from either Arden or the Ministry itself.
“That’s right,” Montford said coolly. He did not say precisely
which
date had been set and trusted no one would ask.
Now all they needed was for the parties to the match to agree.
Musing further on this subject, Montford took little interest in the proceedings until they came to another item on the agenda that touched Rosamund, if only tangentially.
The marriage of Griffin’s sister, Lady Jacqueline deVere.
The Countess of Warrington spoke up. “
That
affair is well in hand, I assure you. Since Lady Jacqueline came to live with us in Bath, she and my son have formed an attachment. I expect an announcement at any moment.”
Montford’s brows drew together over Lady Warrington’s disclosure. Marriage between cousins occurred all the time, but it was a practice of which he did not approve. Just look at her ladyship’s rodent-like features. A clear advertisement against inbreeding if ever there was one.
Besides, Lady Jacqueline deVere had been betrothed to Lord Malby from the cradle, if his memory served correctly. The Ministry had not been notified of any alteration to that plan.
“Am I to gather from this that the longstanding betrothal between Lady Jacqueline and Lord Malby is at an end?” he inquired with a glance at deVere.
“Oh!” scoffed Lady Warrington. “
That
abomination was the old earl’s doing. My nephew will not be guided by his grandsire’s wishes, you may be sure.”
“But I am the girl’s guardian, not Griffin,” rumbled Oliver, Lord deVere. “
I
say whom she marries, madam. And it will not be your namby-pamby son!”
Lady Warrington stared at deVere, openmouthed with astonishment.
Montford intervened. “Perhaps we should adjourn this discussion until the parties can come up with a more … cogent proposal to put to the meeting.”
He glanced at the chairman, who obediently took his cue. The meeting proceeded to a close without further incident. Afterward, the duke accompanied Lord deVere down to his carriage.
“One wonders how you propose to bring off Tregarth’s marriage to my ward, deVere,” Montford murmured, drawing on his gloves. His words made puffs of steam in the crisp wintry air. “Clearly, now that the old earl is dead, your protégé has developed cold feet.”
DeVere jammed his hat on his head. “Cold feet be damned! The boy’s promised to your Lady Rosamund. And a damned lucky Devil he is.”
DeVere’s eyes warmed, presumably in appreciation of Rosamund’s beauty. Montford hoped he would not have the appalling taste to express his admiration.
A vain hope. “Never set eyes on a tastier filly,” rumbled deVere. “Not in all my days. If I weren’t leg-shackled myself—”
Repressing a shudder, Montford held up a hand. “We will leave Lady Rosamund’s indisputable charms out of this discussion. The question is, can you bring young Griffin up to scratch? I’m aware of the difficulties he faces, but enough is enough, deVere. If you don’t deliver me a groom by next meeting, I shall be obliged to bow to Arden’s importunities and put Lady Rosamund back on the Marriage Mart.”
DeVere scowled. “That bloody woman!”
Montford shrugged. “If not Arden, it would be someone else. This betrothal has dragged on for far too long.” He cocked his head. “What ails the fellow?”
DeVere grunted. “You heard about that business with the music master?”
“Yes, but hasn’t that been laid to rest? Besides, it’s hardly an excuse for not marrying Rosamund.” Montford raised his brows. “Oh, you’re not implying he has refrained from matrimony out of some misguided sense of honor, are you?”
DeVere rumbled a denial, then struck his palm with his fist. “Ah, blister it! Who knows? That music master’s death caused him no end of trouble. Besides, there was no love lost between Griffin and the old earl. Maybe he’s reluctant to bend to the old man’s wishes now that he’s cocked up his toes.”
Montford considered. If the marriage of Tregarth’s sister were also up for discussion, that could prove a valuable bargaining chip to use against Griffin.
He raised his hand to dismiss the waiting carriage. “My dear sir. Walk with me, if you will. I have a notion that I think might answer.”
* * *
Lord deVere burst into Griffin’s library at Pendon Place. “Dammit, Griffin, you must marry that Westruther chit, once and for all.”
Griffin put his pen back in its stand and sat back from his desk. Almost any interruption of his attempts to wrestle his accounts books into submission was a welcome respite. But not if it meant discussing Lady Rosamund Westruther.
The mere thought of her still simmered his blood, even after all these years.
“Must I?” He grunted. “Why?”
“If you don’t marry her by the end of this month, the Ministry will give her to someone else, that’s why!”
DeVere threw down a document that skimmed across Griffin’s desk. “You’ll need that.”
Griffin glanced down at the paper. A special license with his and Rosamund’s name on it. A strange, disorienting feeling swept through him, like wind across an icy wasteland. He raised his gaze and watched his kinsman stride about the room.
Lord deVere was a big man, accustomed to using his size and his bullish bluster to get him what he wanted. However, Griffin was even larger than his relative, so he counted among the few deVere failed to intimidate.
Griffin forced out the words. “They may marry her to someone else with my goodwill.” He sighed and rubbed his palm over his face in a gesture of resignation. “It’s about time.”
“What?”
thundered deVere. “You have the audacity to be pleased by this? After all the scheming and scraping and bowing to Montford I had to do to arrange that bloody alliance? You’ll stand by while they give your betrothed to another man?”
“It’s what I hoped they’d do,” Griffin muttered.
Even he knew an honorable man didn’t throw a lady over. But who could blame Rosamund for turning elsewhere when he didn’t claim her? Or the Ministry for giving up on a marriage that would never happen and choosing her another mate? Now Griffin could cut ties with Lady Rosamund Westruther once and for all.
And go to the Devil his own way.
He put his index fingertip on the special license and pushed it away from him. “They’ll have another candidate in mind. They always do.”
DeVere snorted. “Well, it won’t be young Lauderdale, mark my words, though the two of them have been going around smelling of April and May.”
Ah, yes, he knew all about Captain Lauderdale squiring Rosamund around Town. Despite his determination not to care, he hadn’t liked that news one bit. But what right did he have to like or dislike what Lady Rosamund did? None at all. He was finished with her. He ought to be happy, or at least relieved.
He didn’t feel either of those things. He felt as if something inside him had ripped from its moorings and been cast adrift.
“There’s also the matter of your sister,” said deVere abruptly.
Griffin’s head jerked up at that. Something stuck in his throat. He swallowed, trying to dislodge it. “She is well?”
“Yes, yes, or at least, I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. It’s Malby, d’ye see.”
Griffin’s brows drew together. “Malby? One of my grandfather’s cronies, wasn’t he? What has he to do with Jacks?”
Astonishment showed on deVere’s face. “You mean you don’t know? How can this be?”
Know what?
Griffin held himself very still.
“The girl’s been promised to Malby since she was in swaddling bands. Thought you knew.” DeVere pulled at his lower lip, deep in thought. “But Lady Warrington, now.
She
is all for marrying the gel to her boy instead. I don’t deny it’s a good match, but—”
Anger washed over Griffin. Anger laced with desperation. “I won’t have it,” he said through gritted teeth. “I won’t let you sell Jacks off to the highest bidder.”
His brow lowering, Lord deVere braced his hands wide apart on the desk and leaned in. “And just how do you propose to stop me? Your grandfather made
me
the girl’s guardian, not you.”
Griffin forced himself to be calm. DeVere might be full of bluster, but he wasn’t completely heartless. Of course, Jacks must marry, as every woman of her situation did. But that did not mean she must wed some degenerate roué old enough to be her grandsire.
Stalling, Griffin said, “Give her a season, at least. Can you not grant her some choice in the matter, even if it’s only among a select few?”
DeVere took a seat on the other side of the desk and fingered his chin. “Malby will kick up the Devil of a fuss. He won’t let go of her fortune too easily.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m inclined to agree to Malby’s demands. Can’t be too long before the old goat kicks the bucket; then your sister will be free.” He shifted in his chair to unfob his snuffbox. “Of course, if you could see your way clear to wedding Lady Rosamund…”
That took only a moment to sink in. Griffin shot to his feet. “You bastard,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “You are blackmailing me.”
DeVere rose also and met his gaze squarely. “Blackmail? I am reminding you of your obligations to a gently bred lady, sir! That
I
should have to enforce those obligations makes
you
the bastard, not me. But mark me well, Griffin, it will be no skin off my nose to get your sister off my hands and into Malby’s bed. Indeed, it would put me to a vast deal of trouble to renege on the arrangement. But I’ll do it if it means you’ll take Lady Rosamund to wife.”
He paused. “So. Which is it to be?”
Griffin clenched his jaw so hard, he thought it might crack. DeVere wasn’t cruel, but he
was
bloody-minded, sometimes to the point of cutting off his nose to spite his face.