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Michael called his carriage, leaping into the seat before the driver had stopped.
“Lambeth Palace, at once,” he cried. “I must see the archbishop.”
The driver pulled away, throwing Michael back into the seat. The dark streets of London where quiet as the carriage clattered against the cobblestone.
“Cut through the park!” Michael called out to the driver. The carriage swerved from the street into the dark roads of St. James’s park.
He was no stranger to navigating the city during odd hours of the night, but never had he felt such sense of purpose. With unusual sobriety, he noticed the trees and bushes in the park, with dark shadows lurking around every corner. He wondered how many times he had stumbled through the park with Joseph, who had kept him from harm.
Once through the park, dim lanterns lit the way through the narrow streets. They passed by drunken men, linked arm in arm, singing a song out of tune. Beggars and homeless people hid in quiet alleys or doorways, the closer they got to the river.
Then, the River Thames stretched before them like a black pit, Westminster Bridge glowing above the dark waters. Even in the warm summer night, Michael felt a chill as they drove over the depths. Their mad dash through the quiet night made him pensive, thinking philosophically, but he shook himself, refocusing on his singular mission. Finally, through the dense streets, Lambeth Palace’s ornate walls rose above them. The guard at the gate squinted at them.
“Too late for visitors, tonight,” the guard said.
“The Duke of Marigold wishes for a private audience with the archbishop, at once,” the driver said. “It’s an urgent matter.”
The guard sighed, letting them through the front gate. As soon as they stopped at the front steps, Michael took the stairs two at a time, knocking loudly at the door. Keenly aware that everyone was upset by his presence, he smiled to the butler as politely as he could.
“I must speak with the archbishop at once,” Michael told him. “It’s a very urgent matter.”
“You are in luck, as the archbishop is still awake,” the butler told him. “He is still in his study, let me take you upstairs, Your Grace.”
Michael followed the butler up to the archbishop’s study, where they found him reading a large book of sermons.
“Duke,” he said, standing. Michael bowed as the butler receded from the room. The archbishop picked up a piece of paper.
“I can only assume that you are here for this,” he said, handing Michael the paper. At first, Michael thought it might be Lydia’s scandalous letter, but as he took it, it was a license.
“How did you know?” Michael asked, looking up in surprise.
The older man settled back into his chair behind his desk, pouring a glass of amber liquor.
“Let me see. A gentleman calls upon the archbishop late on a Saturday evening, a gentleman that has not graced the parish church in more than a year. I cannot imagine that you needed me to pray for your soul.”
Michael almost laughed, seeing the wry smile on the man’s face.
“Your Grace, but truthfully. How did you know?”
“Your good friend, the Duchess of Beaufort, sent along a messenger not but a half hour ago. Being that she is a well-liked and respected woman, I thought I might do her this favor.”
“She is clever,” Michael laughed.
“I must know, though, the names of the bride and the groom,” the archbishop said, picking up a pen. Dipping the nib in the ink, he looked up to Michael expectantly.
His heart hammered in his chest again, realization setting in that he was truly about to get married. “Lady Lydia Wenton, daughter of the late Viscount of Rackliff, and myself, Michael Conner, Duke of Marigold.”
“Ah, what a lovely match,” the archbishop said, scribbling down the names. “I was hoping to see you married at long last. I am happy that you’ve found such a sensible girl.”
“You do not seem surprised by the haste.”
The archbishop waved his hand. “I see these things quite frequently. I will not ask any questions. There is a small fee for the license.”
Thusly prompted, Michael pulled a couple of coins from his pocket and handed it to the archbishop.
“I hope to see you and your bride in service tomorrow morning,” he said. “But if you do not mind, I must prepare my sermon.”
Michael bowed to him. “Thank you again for accommodating me.”
The archbishop waved him out of the study. As Michael strode down the stairs, the license in hand, he realized that he had been so focused on getting the license, that he had not thought of Lydia herself. Trinity had been at the ball, but he had not seen any of the other girls. Knowing now that Trinity had been trying to gather up the pamphlets, he could only guess that perhaps they would have all returned to the Rackliff townhome.
Once he got there, he could only hope that she would even agree to marry him. The last time they had spoken, he had broken her heart. Despite her dire circumstances, she could simply refuse him. Although he had been relieved to get the license, he now had to find Lydia and convince her this would be the right thing to do.
As he stepped out of Lambeth Palace, he rushed back to the carriage, telling the driver, “To Rackliff, at once.”
