Page 10 of The Cornish Lyon

My dear Captain Carlyon,

You will be happy to discover that I have informed Miss Frampton that you are agreeable to all her terms as regards what we discussed and, as the matter is of the most urgent, I have taken the liberty to acquire a Common Licence for you both. I have conferred with the incumbent clergyman, the Reverend Andrewes, at the Church of St James on Piccadilly and we have set the date for tomorrow morning at eleven of the clock. I shall attend myself as witness, and you are at liberty to bring a friend if you so wish.

Until tomorrow,

Elizabeth Dove-Lyon

The events of last night galloped back into his head with a vengeance, making it ache even more. How had he forgotten so important a thing as this? He’d agreed to marry someone, admittedly whilst in his cups, and he’d done so in front of the Black Widow of Whitehall. Not someone it would be wise to cross.

But…marriage?

The door opened and Thewlis entered with a tray bearing a large coffee pot and a small cup and saucer. He was going to need all of that.

Thewlis set this tray down and surveyed his master. “Is something troubling you, Captain? You appear to be a trifle pale.”

He might as well tell him. The man was going to find out soon enough. “You are correct. I am more than a little troubled. I’ve just remembered that last night I agreed to marry someone I’ve never met. This letter,” he waved it at his man, “recalled it to my mind.”

Thewlis’s normally unperturbable and lugubrious expression morphed into one of astonishment. No doubt he’d imagined, much as Fitz himself had, that his master was likely to remain a bachelor for life, albeit one with a taste for the company of women who could not be described as ladies, and for rich and frustrated widows. Or perhaps because of this predilection. “Married, Captain? Are you sure? When you came in last night you were much the worse for wear. You might have misunderstood what was said to you, might you not?”

Faint hope of that.

Fitz shook his head. “I hope not, for I was assured that the young lady in question is quite the heiress, which is just what I need. Well, I need the money of an heiress if not the company, as she’s bound to be some sort of bluestocking, or have some other trait I’m not going to like. Although…Mrs. Dove-Lyon did say she thought her passing pretty. So she might not be too unpleasant on the eye.” He paused. “Providing she was being honest with me, that is.”

The reason the young lady in question was so anxious for marriage leapt back into his head, but he decided on the spot it might not be something he should share with Thewlis.

“And the letter was specific in stating that you agreed to marriage?”

“It was.” Unlike Georgiana, his relationship with his servant did not incline him to sharing all things. He folded the letter up. “I am to meet the young lady, Miss Frampton, tomorrow morning at eleven at the Church of St James in Piccadilly, which by a fortunate coincidence is not far from here. And we are to be married. Mrs. Dove-Lyon suggests I bring a friend as witness. For that, Thewlis, I choose you. No need to disturb any of my friends as I’m feeling right now as though they’re not all that good for me. If it hadn’t been for Dugdale I’d never have got in so deep and lost so much money. Money I couldn’t afford. And if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have needed to find myself an heiress so promptly.”

Thewlis pursed his lips. “It seems you found such a useful young lady at a most opportune moment.”

Fitz frowned. Thewlis was right about that. Although, if he was honest, the heiress seemed to have found him. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had somehow known how much money he’d lost in her establishment and picked him out of the crowd. Could she possibly have engineered his downfall? No. Too unlikely, especially with the final wager on the snails. No one could manipulate snails, could they? But he had to admit, now that he thought over last night, a rich heiress was something he’d frequently longed to come across and ensnare, and now one had fallen right into his lap.

Feeling pleased with himself, he poured his coffee. Better get this down him and see if it made his hangover go away.

Chapter Six

The morning of the wedding dawned clear and without rain, an unusual occurrence in London at this time of the year.

Georgiana and Havers had chosen between them the pale blue morning dress that had been her papa’s favourite, teamed, as it was chilly still, with a dark blue velvet spencer and a bonnet trimmed with matching ribbons. On her hands Georgiana wore her best silk gloves, and she carried the reticule Papa had given her for her seventeenth birthday, only days before he died. Havers had pronounced her pretty as a picture, but Georgiana was not so sure of that. A glimpse in the mirror, before they left, had shown her a girl who in her own eyes appeared plain and uninteresting. Nothing like her vivacious friend Fanny. She did not feel vivacious at all.

However, at precisely five minutes to eleven, she stiffened her spine as she gazed up at the imposing brick building that was St James’s church, Piccadilly. It had been designed, she’d discovered, in an effort to distract herself the night before, by no less a worthy than Sir Christopher Wren in the aftermath of the Great Fire of London. A formidable history for any church and a daunting prospect for a young lady in her condition. The uneasy sensation burgeoned that everyone she and Havers had passed on her walk here was well aware of her fall from grace.

However, she was a Frampton and Framptons did not allow themselves to feel dejected about anything. This was possibly the most important day of her life and would have a lasting effect on not just her own future, but also on the future of her unborn child. She would meet it as she’d met every event in her life so far. With stoicism and determination. It didn’t matter than she wasn’t classically beautiful like Fanny, nor that she didn’t have her friend’s ancient pedigree. The man whom she was to marry would be receiving a fortune far in excess of Fanny’s portion. He would just have to think himself lucky and make the best of it, as she intended to do.

She slipped her hand into the crook of Havers’ arm, glad of her comforting presence. “Let us go inside, Maggie.”

The interior of the church was splendid. Just what any young lady would hope for in a marriage location, although she couldn’t help but think that small and insignificant might have better suited this particular young lady. A high, barrel-vaulted ceiling, supported by Corinthian columns, rose above the nave, and wooden galleries opened up on three sides, supported by square pillars. Above the altar an intricately carved reredos had to be the work of Grinling Gibbons. Aunt Patience had made sure Georgiana had an education about things she considered essential for young ladies, such as styles of architecture and decoration, but this was the first time such knowledge had come in handy. And probably the last.

Georgiana, resisting the impulse to inform Havers of this uninteresting titbit of information, could not quite see what difference it made whether one knew something was by a well-known artist or not, as the object didn’t cease to be a thing of beauty just because you were ignorant of its creator’s name.

However, apart from a cursory glance, she was not paying attention to her surroundings, exalted as they might be. She was looking up the aisle towards the altar where four men and a woman were standing waiting. Before the altar, gowned in long clerical robes, that must be the Reverend Andrewes, an elderly gentleman in possession of a head of thick white hair in a rather old-fashioned style. As he turned to look at her, so too did his four companions.

One of them was unmistakably Mrs. Dove-Lyon, a somewhat somber figure dressed all in black again, and with an even heavier veil than before shrouding her whole head. Beside the gentlemen, she seemed small and somehow less imposing than she had two days since in her own parlor. Then, she’d reminded Georgiana of a spider at the center of her web, whereas now she was as innocuous as…as a small black cat. A witch’s cat, perhaps, though…

The men standing by her side matched her well, as they, too, were dressed in somber black, as though they were attending a funeral instead of a marriage ceremony. Perhaps her intended husband felt that he was. The possibility that he might not be as willing a participant as she’d imagined arose, to be pushed firmly away. She would not think about things like that. Too distressing. As Havers had whispered to her this morning before they set out, any gentleman would be thankful to receive her and her fortune in marriage and would have no grounds for complaint.

Now, which one of them must be her husband to be?