Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer

‘Discretion is my watchword.’

Marcus smiled. There were times at Oxford when discretion was the last thing he’d sought when in Claude’s company.

‘There is a lady involved.’

‘And St John?’ Claude Binley reached for the chequebook on the corner of the desk.

‘I don’t believe so.’

Claude relaxed into his chair.

‘This time, I am the one most intimately involved.’

Claude’s body snapped back into alertness. ‘You, Marcus? This is most surprising. I have been relieved to find you most circumspect in these matters.’

‘Unlike the previous Dukes of Haughleigh?’ Marcus grinned.

‘Your family has found its way into some damned awkward situations in the last few generations.’

‘And your family has got us out of them.’

‘But you? I’d thought after—’ Claude stopped in mid-sentence, before stepping beyond the acceptable boundaries of both friendship and employ. ‘Well, you haven’t been much of a problem for the last ten years.’

‘And I had hoped to go another ten before finding myself in this position. This particular situation washed up on the doorstep almost a week ago. It seems I have got myself leg-shackled.’

‘Married?’

‘But not legally.’

Claude choked on his tea.

‘To a complete stranger.’ Marcus stepped around the desk and pounded his lawyer smartly on the back, refilling his teacup.

‘No tea,’ he gasped. ‘There is whisky in the decanter behind the bookshelf.’

‘So early in the day?’

‘When the situation calls for it. Pour one for yourself and explain.’

Marcus went to the decanter and poured a healthy inch into the bottom of each empty teacup. Behind him Claude muttered, ‘I knew you were too good to be true. My father warned me about the Haughleighs. And I thought, perhaps, that we might skip a generation. Or that the mess would limit itself to your scapegrace brother.’

Marcus smiled and offered him the cup. ‘We can never be truly free of our heredity, Claude.’ And he began at the beginning, telling of his mother’s request and of finding Miranda in the drawing room.

Claude sat, fingers steepled and a look of intense concentration on his face. When the story was finished he reached again for the chequebook. ‘The solution to this problem is simple. A substantial settlement. Enough to set the girl up in a respectable trade, preferably somewhere far away.’

‘But if she is a gentlewoman as the letters claim?’

‘Then enough to get her home to her family where she can seclude herself.’

‘The marriage?’

‘Is not legal. Or consummated. Breach of promise, perhaps. But I doubt it would hold in court since you were trapped into your offer. Another thousand pounds should still any complaints.’

‘And the blackmail?’

‘Would have surfaced before now if the charge were serious. The claim, whatever it is, is forty years old and made against a dead woman.’

‘But I want to know what the scandal was. And if this girl was hurt by it …’

‘Then you were not at fault. If you truly want my advice, Marcus, you’ll buy her off. If you’d come to me earlier, I’d have told you to send her packing. A family who cared for her reputation would never have sent her to you, and when she arrived …’

‘She met St John. If I had not taken her in, there is no telling what might have happened to her with him there, ready to offer assistance. And in my own home. Was I to stand by and watch?’

‘If you’d taken my advice about St John, you’d have cut him off long ago. He continues to be a problem because you continue to pay his bills. And now your soft heart and your soft head combine to land you here.’

Marcus drew himself up in his chair, but, before he could speak, the lawyer cut him off.

‘I apologise, your Grace, for speaking so freely.’ His tone was anything but apologetic. ‘But if you do not wish to follow my counsel, then give me instruction. Just what is it you want from me in this situation? Congratulations on your nuptials?’ His gaze was cold and intent and his fingers drummed on the edge of the desk as he waited for Marcus to make a decision.

‘I want …’ What did he want? He wanted to make a wise decision that would benefit everyone involved, not just save his own skin. He wanted to be a better man than his brother. Or his father. Or the other Haughleighs down through the generations. Men who had, invariably, chosen folly and self-interest over the needs of others.

‘I want to know the truth of the matter. I want to know where the girl came from. And what part my mother played in her life. If there is truly some fault, if she needs my help in any way, I want to assist her.’ He inhaled and went on. ‘And I want you to procure a special licence.’

Claude exploded. ‘You don’t seriously mean to make this marriage legal. Your Grace, I cannot condone such a course of action. It is madness.’

‘Did I do any better when I married for love? For better or worse, I am home to stay and there is much work to be done. I was going to have to settle the matter of marriage and succession sooner, not later. St John is sniffing around the house, drinking my brandy and hoping that I choke on my soup. The household is in shambles and I have no idea how to bring it round. This Miranda Grey may be a fortune hunter, but, by God, she’ll earn her fortune if she means to stay. When I return in two weeks, if she hasn’t already fled in despair or locked herself in her room, or if I have not found evidence that she is disgraced beyond all acceptance, I might do worse than to make the situation permanent and keep her on.’

‘Marcus, you talk as if you are hiring a housekeeper.’

‘At least I am not so crack-brained as to be pining for eternal love and divine happiness. I am not the green fool that I used to be, Claude, whinging for my broken heart and shattered dreams. One woman is much like another, once the lights are out. I never thought I’d say it, but my mother was right. If this girl is chaste and willing, I could do worse. At least she gave no indication, in our brief time together, that she was some empty-headed, society chit. Nor prone to illogical tears or fits of giggles.’

But, occasionally, to shouting. He smiled as the picture formed in his head of his new wife, storming up at him, and could almost feel the weight of her in his arms as he’d carried her to her room. The next time he carried her there, it would be different.

‘No, Claude. If I can find no major fault, I mean to keep her.’ He laid the blackmail letters on the table in front of him. ‘And I wish you to direct me in my search for her family.’

Chapter Eight

Marcus entered his third stationer’s shop of the day, with a growing feeling of despair. Perhaps Claude had been right when he’d offered to make the inquiries himself. But, since there was no telling what he might find at the end of the journey, he had wanted to do the leg work himself.

And he’d discovered that there was indeed a Lady Miranda Grey, aged three and twenty, daughter of Sir Anthony, but that neither had been seen in years. Sir Anthony had run through the family fortune after the death of his wife, and was rumoured to have decamped to the continent like a filthy coward, or quietly put a bullet through his brain. What remained of the family goods had been sold at auction years ago, but the daughter had not been present. There was no known family, although one would have expected to hear of an aunt or female relative of some kind to step forward and claim the girl. The name Lady Dawson did not appear in any of the accompanying records, nor was it familiar to those questioned.

He looked imperiously at the stationer in front of him and tried to hide any hopes that he might feel for the outcome of the visit. His title was enough to send the clerk scurrying to get the storeowner, who fell over himself in an effort to win what he’d hoped would be a lucrative order.

‘How can we help you, your Grace?’

‘I am recently married and will need a wide variety of things. Announcements. Engraved cards for my wife. Some writing paper for her, I think. With a monogram. And a watermark. The family crest. Can you manage that?’

‘Of course, your Grace.’ The man was fairly drooling at the prospect.