“But please understand that because I have been a fool once... I do not wish to be one again.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon took another sip of tea, paused, added another morsel of sugar from the matching bowl and stirred thoughtfully. “Do you trust me?”
Mary paused. “I have to, do I not?”
The older woman leaned back against her chair. “I do understand your concerns. I have been young. And occasionally acted three pence short of a shilling.”
Mary bit her lip.
With a smile, Mrs. Dove-Lyon stirred her tea again, set the spoon aside with a tiny clink, and pointed to one of the pages. “Him. Thaddeus Ephraim Bolton, second son, Earl of Crookham. All three have the usual cockiness of all aristocratic men”—she glanced at Kit—“but he has a bit more humility, and he has been at odds among society since the first and only woman he courted found herself whisked away by a father determined to marry her to wealth.”
Kit cleared his throat. “So he has no income.”
“A modest allowance. He is bright but without serious prospects, as his father will not allow him to pursue a profession in this country. Lord Thaddeus would not suit the Church and the military would not suit him. Latest rumor is that his father would prefer shipping him to America.”
Kit stiffened, looking at Mary. “America?”
“Lord Crookham is extraordinarily bereft in loyalty to his children—other than the heir—but this seems to be an idle threat meant to curtail his second son’s frequent visits here and to Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium.” She sipped her tea. “He likes to box.”
Mary looked down at the paper again, running her finger down the details. Six and twenty. She could not remember exactly how old the vicar had been, but he did have children much older than her. She had met the earl in the park, knew that the older son was married, with one child. Both had struck her as cold, aloof, but many of the men of thetondid as well, as if they could barely be bothered with any person who was not their peer in Parliament.
She pushed the paper back. “Does he have friends?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s brows arched. “Friends?”
Kit too looked puzzled.
“Mates. People he would talk to. Rely on.”
A gentle smile crossed Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s face. “A few. The closest would be George Brothers.”
Kit chuckled, shaking his head. Mary looked at him, as did Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Something you wish to share, brother?”
He grinned. “I know George Brothers. Richer than Croesus. His father invested heavily in mills and shipping sometime back. Inveterate prankster and gambler.” He lowered his voice. “So if they are such friends, why doesn’t Brothers pay off the debt?”
Again, the mischievous smile. “Because Lord Thaddeus will not let him. He would rather be indebted to me, no matter the consequences, than owe money to a friend.”
“Wise man,” Kit muttered.
Indeed.Mary took a deep breath. “So what do we do now?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked from one to the other, then gave a slow nod. “A meeting. I will arrange it for here. Neutral territory.” She focused on Kit. “Send me your parameters for a marriage contract, so that he can be suitably informed, and I will send the details of the meeting.”
Tuesday, 25 April 1826
Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium, Whitechapel, London
Half-past three in the afternoon
“I warned you.You should have let me pay off that debt. Otherwise, this was a real possibility. Who is she?”
Thad shrugged. “The Lyon would not give me her name. I do not know if the woman is my perfect angel from yesterday or some widowed dragon who misses a man in her bed.”
George bounced an Italian-made stiletto in one hand, his fingers sliding over the grip and blade, lingering on the hilt, as if he were caressing his latest mistress. Admiration shone in his eyes. “God, I love this knife. Probably not one of the dragons. They can have any man they want.” He wagged the knife at Thad. “I know that all too well. Widows don’t pay the consequences young maidens do.”
Thad looked around. They sat at the far rear of the boxing salon, on one of the hardest benches Thad had ever planted his derriere on. He shifted, glancing at the fight currently in process in the center ring. Both fighters had drawn blood and looked dazed, but neither had surrendered. The catcalls around them drowned out the sound of the continuous punches. “Not after a certain age.” He turned back to George and pointed at the wall nearest them. “Third plank from the left. Knot about four feet up.”
“How much?”
