“A shave and front teeth are no small improvement,” Sophia provided.
But for Matilda, the news that her husband was a duke was a source of dismay. She who had been accustomed to getting her way by strength of will and her own determination was now in a quandary. She had married a peer of the realm without his consent. She had done so without her parents’ knowledge. Such an impropriety would not be tolerated in the strict constraints of the ton, she knew, where a man could commit almost any vice that he chose, as long as he did not get caught and as long as he remembered his duty to his class. The Weldons were respectable, except for the unpredictable Aunt Gretchen, who did as she chose, but they were not aristocrats.
What would the Gillands think when they heard the news, for the news would certainly explode throughout England when it was made public. Would they feel that their generous hospitality and their cordiality had been abused? Would Sophia suffer from the scandal? What about Nell and Abigail?
After Hubert left and Sophia had gone to meet with her Aunt to discuss the social invitations they had received, Matilda walked slowly up the staircase. She would not be a coward. She would confess what she had done to the man she had married. And she would accept his decision.
When she opened the door, her husband, Marcus Cromwell, the Duke of Winchester, was standing by the window. He had gotten out of the bed on his own power. He turned to smile at her. Now that he was clean-shaven and dentally restored, she could see the hint of what Hubert had told them. He was an attractive man and not at all the ugliest man in London.
“My lord,” she said hesitantly. “I have come to beg your pardon.”
Marcus shook his head.
“Will you not forgive me?” she said. “I never meant to . . . that is, I meant to marry you, but only because I thought you quite ordinary and indeed, ugly . . . and I thought that you would not object . . . oh, dear, I’m making a dreadful snarl of this, am I not?”
He was smiling. Then he opened his arms wide. Matilda gazed at him in confusion.
“Do you forgive me?” she asked, unable to believe her good fortune.
Marcus pointed to the note that he had penned while sitting at the desk in front of the window. Matilda took it.
My dear Matilda,
Now that I know the circumstances of my rescue, I must thank you for having rescued my heart as well as my body. My title and my station are meaningless to me because they were the reason for the attack on my life. Had you and your comrades not saved me, I would be ‘the late Lord Marcus Cromwell.” Such a resolution forces a man to consider his lot in life. I admit that, when my friend Hubert first acquainted me with the circumstances of my presence here, I was vexed to think that I had been duped into marriage. But upon thought, I realize now that I have been blessed well beyond my deserving, for you did not know me. You married me and brought me here so that I would recover from my wounds. You are a most remarkable young woman; no other female of my acquaintance would have done what you have. If you can find it in your heart to accept a former profligate man as your husband, I would be honored to make you the Duchess of Winchester in a ceremony of somewhat more grandeur than what we shared at Gretna Green. When I am well enough to stand before the altar and repeat the vows which have bound men and women in holy matrimony for time immemorial, I will promise to love, honor and cherish you as no woman has ever been prized.
Your husband,
Marcus Cromwell, Duke of Winchester
Matilda raised her eyes. “But I am plain,” she protested. “And quite ordinary. And unknown to society. You will not embellish your lineage with a Weldon for a wife.”
It was not easy to kiss a woman passionately when one’s features were still tender from wounds. But as Marcus took Matilda into his arms, he found that the pain of the action was wondrously overpowered by the delight of holding her in an embrace that told her what he did not yet have the words to say. Matilda, as she surrendered to his kiss, marveled that he did not resent her for her actions. She was unfamiliar with the kisses and embraces of a gentleman, but her instincts told her that the duke was well pleased with the woman who had married him without his consent.
“You are nothing like The Detestable,” she murmured as he held her close.
The Detestable? What on earth was she talking about, Marcus wondered. But when she eagerly accepted a renewal of his affection, he decided that whatever it was, it could wait. Kissing was far more important.
10
Restoring Lord Marcus
Hubert had lost his fortune in the manner in which young men of London typically lost their fortune. Gaming was a practice which the young swells enjoyed until it took ownership of them. For Hubert, the cards, the dice, the reckless wager made on a whim had cost him everything, so that he was now required to live within his means, in reduced circumstances which no longer permitted him such expensive indulgences.
But those years had not been entirely wasted, he found as he made the rounds of the taverns in the disreputable sections of the city. As Henry Cromwell was making his way through the social swirl of London in the guise of the Duke of Winchester, he was sure to have men of low morals who would do his bidding. It was up to Hubert to find them.
He entered a port tavern and ordered a drink. He had not been here in a long time. The setting and the clientele did not appear to have changed for the better. No doubt there was a card game or a cockfight going on nearby. The men who were drinking kept their voices low and did not mingle in a friendly manner as they would have done in a neighborhood pub.
“Whot you lookin’ at?” growled a man sitting to his right.
“I am searching for men of a brave nature who will not shy from work that others are too cowardly to do.”
“Whot might that be, and what you payin’ for it?”
“Why should I trust you with the answer?”
The man smirked. “If you wan the deed done, you’ll have to open up now, won’t you?”
“What sort of work have you done before?”
“I’ve done what needed doin’.”
Hubert took a long sip of his drink. “That tells me nothing.”
“Whot you payin’?”
“What were you paid for your last job?”
“I was paid right well,” the man sneered. “On account of travel, you see.”
“Travel to where?”
“That be none of your business.”
“It is if you blabbed to others that you were somewhere where suspicious deeds were done and you are sought by the law.”
“The law,” the man said dismissively. “Whot’s the law to do with anything?”
“A great deal if they catch a man in a crime.”
“Us don’t get caught.”
Us. Hubert’s interest quickened. Perhaps this conversation would bear fruit where those that had taken place on the previous nights had not.
“You have associates?”
The man found this amusing. “Associates,” he repeated. “Yeah, I got associates.”
Hubert signaled to the bartended. “Another drink for my . . . . associate here,” he said.
This time, when Hubert visited the Gilland home, Lord Marcus was able to join the gathering in the drawing room. His improvement during the previous fortnight had been so remarkable that Dr. Loring declared he no longer needed the weekly services of a physician. His speech had returned, and although his voice tired if he spoke too long, he was satisfied that he was finally able to communicate with words again.
“He has confirmed our suspicions,” Hubert reported, telling the others of the negotiations that he had conducted with the man in the port tavern, who had boasted that he had been well paid for his last assignment, and how the man who had hired him was a duke, no less.
“I am surprised that he was so candid,” Marcus said.
“He’s in need of funds to replenish those he spent,” Hubert explained “That made him brash. That and the liquor; he downed a prodigious amount of liquor i
n the telling of his tale.”
“I can confirm that my half-brother tried to kill me,” Marcus said. “But to prove that the effort was a deliberate attempt to kill me and take the title . . . that will take more evidence than merely the report of a tavern drunk.”
Hubert smiled. “I told him much the same. I told him that I need an equally dark deed to be committed, but I will not risk my life or my freedom without proof that he has been both successful and discreet. It turns out that he has a grudge against Lord Henry, who neglected to pay all that he had promised. Such callous dishonor among thieves,” Hubert smiled, “seems to have soured our tavern assassin on the perfidy of the aristocrats. He will only take on the task if he is paid beforehand.”
“And what task is that?”
“I have been discreet to the point of mystery,” Hubert smiled again. “He is not sure whether I want him to steal a bishop’s miter, remove a body from Westminster Abbey, or make an attempt on the life of a Member of Parliament. He is game for anything if the price is right. But more to the point, he is interested in the opportunity.”
“And when he finds out that there is no opportunity?” Marcus pressed.
“Then he will have to save his sorry neck by telling what he knows to the authorities. Sophia, can you ask your father to return to London? I believe that he is the one we need now.”
“I can, but what shall I tell him?”
Marcus grinned. “Why not tell him that Matilda’s husband is in need of judicial advice regarding an attempt made on his life? Do you think that would bring him back in a trice?”
Sophia’s eyes sparkled. “I do believe it would,” she said.
“Perhaps you could add something to that message?” Hubert suggested. “Perhaps you could tell him that you would like to be married by Christmas and your intended wishes to formally ask for your hand in marriage?”
Judge Gilland was quite willing to return to London upon receipt of the message, which was so extraordinary that it was worth sacrificing the hunt. His wife was eager to return to London for any reason, but the tantalizing reference to Sophia’s hand in marriage made her even more impatient.
When faced with the judge’s stern attention to his tale, the man from the tavern who hoped for employment from Hubert was quick to realize that, in order to save himself, he had to cast another to the wolves. The judge moved swiftly to arrest the Dowager Duchess and her son.
“You have, it seems, enjoyed a most eventful autumn under my roof, Your Grace,” the judge said to Marcus when they were all assembled for supper. “I find that my daughter is now engaged, her dear friend is married, a plot has been uncovered and legal redress sought, and your title is restored to you. I am fearful to ever leave again, lest my family encounter another such dramatic turn of events.”
“Not a bad turn of events,” Lord Marcus said, “for the ugliest man in London.”
Matilda blushed. “You were rather frightful looking,” she defended herself, “when you were in the full flush of your wounds. But now you are quite handsome.”
“Handsome enough to be married in front of family members and friends, instead of a blacksmith?” Marcus teased.
“What’s this?” Mrs. Gilland asked, her gaze darting from Marcus to Matilda in search of a clue.
“Oh, nothing of significance,” Marcus said. “Best not to talk about it, or Nell and Abigail will find their marital prospects blighted.” He smiled at the girls, who, like Matilda, had crimsoned at his words. “I believe I may know of a gentleman or two who might think it quite a lark to be married to women who can handle firearms as well as the four of you can.”
“Firearms? Your Grace, you have a most invigorating sense of humor.”
“I believe I do,” Lord Marcus said blandly. “I hope that my in-laws will agree when they meet me. It is likely to be a most . . . invigorating wedding.”
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The Ugliest Man in London: Regency Romance Page 5