His Convenient Marchioness

Giving up on tea, Hunt walked over to his desk and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter there. The mere thought of taking to wife—and bed—a chit only a couple of years older than his own daughter would have been if she’d lived left him vaguely nauseated. Oh, it happened. All the time. But it wasn’t going to happen with him. The very idea made him feel like an elderly satyr. An incestuous one to boot when he considered Chloë. For God’s sake! He’d taken the child to Astley’s Amphitheatre for her tenth birthday and still took her to Gunter’s for an ice whenever they were both in London. He would be one of Chloë’s guardians if that was ever required. He took a swallow of brandy, felt it burn its way down. If Chloë was old enough to appear on anyone’s list of eligible damsels, he’d probably bought their last ice cream. It made him feel positively elderly.

Letty leaned forward. ‘Giles, marriageable ladies do not languish on the shelf for years on the chance that a middle-aged widower will exercise a modicum of common sense.’ She scowled. ‘If a woman remains unwed at thirty there is a very good reason for it! I acknowledge the difficulty, but—’

‘A widow.’

‘What?’

Hunt set the brandy down. ‘Letty, a widow would be far more appropriate. A woman of some maturity would be a far better match for me.’ A widow would be less demanding of his time, his attention...his affections. She would know how to go on and not require his guidance. And he wouldn’t feel like a satyr.

Letty scowled. ‘Well, I suppose so, but you need a woman young enough to bear children!’

‘Thirties,’ Hunt said. ‘That’s still young enough.’

It was rational. It was sensible. An older woman would not have stars in her eyes or romantic fancies he could not fulfil.

Letty pushed her tea away. ‘You may pour me some brandy.’

He reached over and did so, passing it to her.

She took a healthy swig. ‘No money with a widow, most likely. She may even have children.’

‘No matter.’ A widow’s dowry usually went to her first husband’s estate, or was settled on her children. Any jointure, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, ceased upon remarriage. And if she had children, at least he would know she was fertile. Any sons other than infants would be safely at school and very likely their paternal relatives would have guardianship. That was how it was done. As for daughters, they would be their mother’s business. He frowned. Now he considered it, it seemed a cold way of doing things...

‘Very well.’ Letty swigged more brandy. ‘Another list.’

Hunt cleared his throat. ‘I think I can just about manage to find my own bride, Letty.’

She tossed off the rest of the brandy. ‘I doubt it. Many widows do not move much in society. There’s no need for them really.’

That sounded cold, too. But—‘All right. But for God’s sake, be discreet.’

She fixed him with a look that would have sunk a battleship. ‘Why don’t we pretend you didn’t say that?’

He grinned, despite his vexation. ‘I beg your pardon.’

She gave him a blank look. ‘My pardon? For what?’

‘For—never mind. Don’t know what I was thinking.’

Returning to his library after seeing Letty to her carriage, Hunt poured another brandy and sat down at his desk, clicking his fingers at Fergus, who came to him, tail wagging. This room, full of books, with lamplight glowing on the bindings, warm with the rich fragrance of leather, was his sanctuary. Here he could be private and as content as it was possible for him to be. The dog’s head rested against his knee and he fondled the silky, drooping ears.

By the inkwell, where he saw them every time he dipped a quill, was the miniature of his first wife, Anne, and their children, Simon, Lionel, and his Marianne, and Gerald, his young half-brother. Now, instead of letting him slip back into the past, their silent gazes prodded him forward. He took a careful breath, reached out and picked up Anne and the children. Very gently he laid them in the drawer where he kept paper. What bride would want her predecessor on her husband’s desk? The portrait of Gerald at nineteen remained, a reminder of his terrible failure.

* * *

‘But we could buy a proper kite instead of paying the subscription, Mama,’ Harry explained in a wheedling tone for what Emma calculated was the fiftieth time. ‘It doesn’t have to be just my kite. I promise I’ll share with Georgie and you can use it and we’ll—’

‘No, Harry.’ Lady Emma Lacy, a box of subscription books under one arm, released her daughter Georgie’s hand and pushed open the door of Hatchard’s Bookshop on Piccadilly. She gestured Harry inside. ‘The weather for flying kites is over.’ October was nearly gone and the weather had turned cool. At least at this time of year the likelihood of running into anyone she knew on Piccadilly was low. London had emptied of the ton after the Season ended. Some would return briefly for the autumn sitting of Parliament, but right now town was empty. Except for—she cast an edgy glance over her shoulder—the man who had walked behind them all the way from Chelsea. He was nowhere to be seen and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was being foolish. Other people lived in Chelsea. Perfectly respectable people for the most part and she had walked into town along the King’s Road, the most direct route. It was hardly surprising that someone else should do so. She had seen this particular man rather often in the past weeks. But she knew most of her neighbours and she had never seen this man before, nor did he ever seem to do anything except simply be there—where she was. It was foolish, but she could not shake off the feeling that she was being watched.

‘Please, Mama?’

She dragged her attention back to Harry, summoning patience. ‘We can set money aside for a kite at the next quarter day. For Christmas.’ Assuming no unexpected bills dropped into her lap. As it was, she had considered letting the Hatchard’s Circulating Library subscription go back at Michaelmas, but the children had to be given their lessons and she needed the weekly selection of books to help with that. It simply meant that she could not save as much this quarter towards the day when she must send Harry to school.

‘I hate quarter day.’ Harry dragged his feet over the doorstep, his face sulky.

Emma opened her mouth to tell him not to scuff his new shoes, that they had to last until the next quarter day—and changed her mind. She hated quarter day, too. Hated the having to sit down and budget for the next three months, because there never seemed to be enough for new shoes and a simple treat like a kite for a ten-year-old boy. Hated having to worry about the cost when one of the children became ill and most of all she hated that Harry even knew what quarter day was. Even little Georgie had an inkling of the import of quarter day.

The struggle to make ends meet had not been so bad when Peter was alive. There had been more money and the children had been smaller, too. Georgie, now six, was still content with Emma’s attempts at doll-making. Her effort at kite-making had fallen well short of the mark. Quite literally. The makeshift kite had ended up in the Serpentine.

‘Papa would have known how to make a kite.’ Georgie, holding Emma’s hand again, looked up with complete assurance in her tawny eyes. Peter’s eyes.

Harry looked back and scowled. ‘Oh, shut up, Georgie. You’re just a baby. You don’t even remember Papa.’

Georgie stuck her tongue out. ‘Do, too! And he would have!’

‘Harry.’ Emma frowned at her son. ‘Don’t be rude to your sister. Georgie, no lady ever sticks her tongue out.’

Georgie looked mutinous. ‘It’s only Harry.’

‘Even so. And, yes, Papa would have known how to make a kite.’ And how to help their rapidly growing son become a man.

Harry looked crosser than ever. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway.’ He sulked ahead of his mother and sister, still scuffing his shoes.

Emma followed, Georgie’s hand tucked into hers. Harry needed to be with boys his own age, but at the moment school was beyond her means. More, he needed a man’s influence. Not, as her father had put it four years ago, to lick him into shape, but just to be there for him. Somehow she had to see to his education and—

‘What book shall I choose, Mama?’

She smiled down at Georgie. ‘Let’s see what’s there, shall we?’

* * *

Hunt told Fergus to stay and left the spaniel sitting beside Hatchard’s doorstep. Fergus’s plumed tail beat an enthusiastic tattoo on the pavement and, confident the dog would be there when he came out, Hunt strolled into the shop and breathed in the delight of leather bindings, ink and paper. One of the few things he missed about London when he was in the country was her bookshops, this one in particular. John Hatchard had only opened his business a few years earlier, but it had quickly become one of Hunt’s favourites.

The dark-haired young man came forward to greet him. ‘Good morning, my lord.’ He executed a slight bow. ‘Welcome back to London. You found us, then.’

Hunt smiled. ‘Good morning, Hatchard. Yes.’ He glanced around the shop. When he’d left London at the end of the spring sitting of Parliament, Hatchard had been further along Piccadilly. ‘Your new premises are satisfactory?’

The bookseller smiled back. ‘Oh, yes. I venture to say we’ll be here for a while, my lord. May I help you with something in particular?’

‘No, no. I’ll just wander through to the subscription room and make my selection. Unless you’ve anything special for me look at?’ Hatchard knew his collection almost as well as he did.

Hatchard’s smile deepened. ‘As it happens, sir, I do have a 1674 edition of Milton. I was going to write to you.’

Hunt hoped his expression didn’t betray him. ‘Paradise Lost? That sounds interesting.’ An understatement if ever there was one. Hatchard knew perfectly well that he didn’t have the first edition of Paradise Lost.

‘I’ll fetch it for you. The subscription room is through there.’ Hatchard pointed.

Hunt tried not to look as though Christmas had arrived early. ‘Thank you, Hatchard. No rush. Call me when you’re ready.’