Thad glowered. “I asked you never to mention her.”
“I didn’t say a name.”
“We both knew who you meant.”
“Lydia.”
Thad leaned back and crossed his arms, lips pressed together. He would not—refused to—engage in this memory.
It arrived anyway.
Lady Lydia Southworth, his bluestocking queen. Books and science experiments. He had rescued her from her first season’s awkwardness and ridicule with lectures at the Royal Society, plays, and nightly walks to discuss the stars, her sleepy-headed maid trailing behind them. Then her father had returned from Africa to discover his daughter being courted by a skint second son. Three weeks later, Lydia had married a fifty-five-year-old widowed earl with a large income and three sons.
“I only mentioned her to remind you that she was not beautiful. There was a reason her father married her off to an old man with poor eyesight.”
“To me she was lovely.”
“Precisely. Thus my doubts about your ‘perfect angel.’” George waved over a server who set two pints of ale on the table.“There’s going to be a great match, bare knuckles, at Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium around six. On me.”
Thad slowly uncrossed his arms. “I do not owe them much. Yet.”
George saluted him with his ale. “As my da always says, a man needs a goal.”
Chapter Two
Monday, 24 April 1826
The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London
Five in the afternoon
Mary perused thethree sheets of foolscap spread before her on Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s desk. At the top of each, broad strokes of a quill had resulted in three names. Below each ran a list of details, including age, status, family connections, rank among the Beau Monde, character traits—and one line that listed “Health and Form.” All three men apparently had “good” health and a “fair” form.
Which told Mary nothing. That bloody vicar had been in good health, although as round as a toad with tuffs of red hair circling his head like a mangy tonsure and a nose bulging with broken veins. She gave a little shudder, remembering his touch. Today she marveled that she had ever been so foolish. But then his caresses had brought comfort, reassurance that at least one person truly cared for her.
A childish delusion.
What made these men different? They were indebted to this woman—how could they be any more honorable? Or truly interested in building a family with her?
Kit touched her shoulder. “Are you well?”
Mary sighed. “Just remembering.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon set down her teacup. The tea service had been replenished in the last ten minutes, and the strong aroma of the brew reached Mary. “They are not like your vicar.”
Mary’s gaze snapped to hers. Apparently, the proprietress also read minds. “How can you be so sure?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon pointed at the pages. “Because I guard my reputation closely, and making such a foul match would do none of us any good. These men are also much younger, stronger, and from quality families. They are gamblers, as are most men of theton, and they have stepped out of line—thus they owe me—but none have traversed as far across the line as your vicar.”
“He is not my—”
“Or you.”
Mary’s mouth snapped shut. Beside her Kit bristled. “Now see here—”
“Do you wish my help or not?”
Mary put a hand on Kit’s forearm but tilted her head toward their hostess, addressing her. “My brother and his wife, our families, have taken some desperate steps in attempts to protect me from the repercussions of my... failing. They wed quickly and took my child as their own, risking their own reputations. I also recognize that my brother’s new family has taken him in—and me—and he has found himself elevated in a way none of us expected. He has found a safe place under the wing of the Duke of Kennet. I mean to honor that, although I know I have put it all in jeopardy. The rumors put the possibility of me having a successful season at risk, and I know too that my brother has sought you out in pure desperation to see me settled in a secureposition before he and Beth leave for India. He is trying to do his duty toward me.
