After Louisa had stormed out of the room, Percy called for the brandy bottle and poured them each a celebratory glass. Then, they set about concocting a biography for the lucky man who was to marry his sister.
His name should be Tom, they decided, since fewer mistakes would be made if there was one less lie in the story. Allowed to choose his own surname, Thomas selected Smith. There were plenty of those about. Should anyone ask unfortunate questions about where the fellow had gone once they were through with him, it would be better that they have too much success trying to find him instead of too little. There must be hundreds of Tom Smiths in the country and any one of them might have married Louisa.
But their Tom Smith must have a history of some sort. Was he employed? Not a cit, surely. Thomas agreed that Louisa was worthy of a gentleman.
Percy favoured either a surgeon or a retired soldier, but each of those had their problems. What if someone became unwell while they were in Wiltshire and thought Thomas could tend to them? Likewise, he might run into a veteran of some battle or other, wishing to reminisce.
The law had similar problems, for he understood it in principle but not practice. When boiled down to the dregs, Thomas feared he really did not know much of anything. Hewas more than familiar with the making of speeches and passing of laws. But those skills were useless in everyday life. He could dance, box and ride, better than some and worse than others. He had more property than anyone needed, but he left the management of it to others.
He was proclaimed a wit at parties and good company by his fellows. Every Season, he received invitations to more gatherings than it was possible to attend. But that was probably because he was a duke. Even if he was as dull as a butter knife no one was going to tell him so. They were far too eager to be seen with him to increase their own status.
Though he hated to admit it, Thomas Carew was not a happy man. With each Season that passed, he grew more doubtful of his worth and more cynical about the way others treated him. People were impressed by the glossy, gold-plated shell that was his title. They did not give two damns about what was in his heart or his head.
The lucky Tom Smith would be free of such nonsense. His mind would be open and his heart on his sleeve. But who was he?
After some consideration, they decided to make him the owner of a modest farm in Staffordshire. It was nothing too prepossessing. He had a few tenants and subsisted mostly on the interest of an inheritance of several thousand pounds a year. The amount was generous enough to prove he was no fortune hunter, but not so extreme as to arouse suspicion.
Satisfied with that, they began to work on the courtship they had promised Louisa. Mr Smith had come to London to visit an aging aunt and had met Miss Skeffington in church. Even the strictest patriarch could not object to that. After an exchange of letters, he had come back to town to make his offer. The wedding would be small and would take place at the church of a village near his home, as soon as they left Skeffington Manor.Then, they would return to his property and live quietly, until his unfortunate death from influenza later in the year.
In reality, they would move back to London and cash the check. They could stay in the Bonham townhouse until a suitably private place could be found where Louisa could wait out her imaginary marriage before beginning her happy new life as Widow Smith.
Percy had smiled and declared this more than enough information to create the announcement for the paper, the letter to his grandfather and the eventual obituary.
They’d had a second glass of brandy to celebrate their work before Thomas returned home to arrange for his trip to Wiltshire.
Once there, he’d gone immediately to his room and examined the clothing in the wardrobe. It was fine for a duke, but Tom Smith needed something far less distinctive.
He’d summoned his valet. Wade had appeared promptly, ready to assist, as always. Thomas smiled at him. ‘I need a suit,’ he said. ‘Several, actually.’
‘Shall I make an appointment with your tailor, Your Grace?’ the servant said, giving him a surprised look.
‘Not my tailor, no. I need you to find someone we have not visited before. Provide him with my measurements and tell him I will not be attending fittings, nor do I wish the items delivered. In fact, I do not want my name mentioned at all.’
‘Very well, Your Grace,’ Wade replied, trying to hide his bafflement.
‘I will be leaving the decisions on fabric and buttons up to you. Choose something that is not overly expensive,’ he went on. ‘Nothing flashy. Tasteful and sensible. You must pick the items up when they are complete and pay cash.’ Then, he added the pièce de resistance. ‘Be sure to have the bill made out to Mr Tom Smith.’
Wade looked intrigued but knew better than to ask for an explanation. ‘Will you be needing new linens, Your Grace?’ he asked. ‘Hose? Boots?’
‘The existing shirts should be fine, as long as nothing has a monogram,’ he replied. ‘No clocking on the hose. And as for boots?’ He ran his mind over the things he’d been wearing. ‘The oldest and most comfortable will do. I do not mind a bit of wear. But see to it they are well polished and in good repair.’
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Wade replied and went on his way.
They had outlined the play. An actor was hardly an actor without a costume, so he’d seen to that. The script still needed details. Epistolary romance was all well and good, but he liked to think there’d been more to it. Something had motivated this fake couple to communicate after he left London for his farm. What might that be?
The primary motivation was obvious. Louisa might be shy, but she was an exceptionally pretty girl. She had the same dark hair as her brother. Her large brown eyes were always focused on a place far removed from the mundane world the rest of them were forced to inhabit.
He’d often seen her sitting in the little window seat at Percy’s townhouse, a book forgotten in her lap as her mind wandered. His presence usually startled her back to reality and he always felt guilty for it. There was occasionally a moment, before the dream had fully faded, when she would look at him with such a sweet smile that he longed to follow her back into it, leaving his life behind for the freedom of a fantasy.
That was rather what he was doing now, by becoming Tom Smith. It was also why he was putting so much thought into what should be a simple thing. If he could make her life as happy as her dreams, it would be a noble act, indeed. He would not let her waste her life being a nursemaid to a cruel, old miser.
And, after the latest Season in London, he wanted a holiday from the burden of all things associated with being Bonham. Spending a week as a farmer in love would be just the break he desired.
It was not really that it bothered him, to be a peer of the realm. He generally enjoyed his duties and, of course, the wealth. It was the inescapability of it all that sometimes weighed on him. As the first son of a duke, he’d known his future since the moment he’d been old enough to know anything at all. He had been raised into it, educated for it, groomed and trained to be just what he was.
If it were not for the people around him, he’d have been quite fine with it all. But he had not had a sincere conversation with anyone other than Percy in months. The scraping and bowing and careful manoeuvring of the people around him was exhausting beyond reason. Everyone in London seemed to want something from him. Even social invitations were carefully orchestrated attempts to curry favour or gain status.
Women were worse by far than the men. He was not sure which he disliked more, the marriageable girls, or the mothers forcing those girls into his company. The simpering and giggling and fluttering of lashes, and the vacuous conversation attached to them gave him a megrim. It was not that he did not want and need to marry. But he wished to do it in his own time and not because he was the quarry in season at a husband hunt.
