“I predict you and he will be excellent friends within the year,” Kiri said. “After all, you are removing my alarming self from the list of his responsibilities.”
“The fact that he countenances our marriage has earned my undying gratitude.” Mac considered. “I’m becoming part of a rather large family, aren’t I?”
Kiri nodded apologetically. “My parents, two brothers, a sister, Adam’s wife, Mariah, and her family, the general’s family. The Stillwells are mostly vicars, but not the painfully staid sort. I think they’ll all adore you. How could they not?”
“You’d be amazed how many people don’t adore me,” he said earnestly.
She laughed. “I hope you don’t find so many new relatives overwhelming. We don’t have to live in my family’s pockets, but you were right that it would devastate me to be estranged from them.” She looked grave. “I’m very, very glad I don’t have to choose between you and them.”
He was equally glad that he wouldn’t have to see what that choice would be. “I’m delighted that you have so many relatives whom you actually like,” he said seriously. “I have very few blood relations. Mostly just Will, along with a few Masterson cousins who find me something of an embarrassment. Will has been my anchor, the best thing in my life until I met you. So the more family, the better.”
“They will definitely adore you once you meet, but they’ll sometimes drive you mad,” she warned.
“From what I’ve seen, that’s part of the fun of family. People who care about you enough to make you miserable.” Mac caressed her from shoulder to thigh, slowing on the curves. “I look forward to spending less time at Damian’s and more time with you.”
“And I look forward to spending more time at the club. I think I might create a perfume boutique for your customers,” she said mischievously.
“What a splendid idea,” he said enthusiastically. “As long as you don’t sniff any of your male clients.”
“None of them could possibly smell half as irresistible as you.” She nuzzled his throat, which led to another kiss.
“You smell irresistible, too.” He slid a hand between her thighs. “Your blasted divided skirts are useful for riding and adventure, but not so good for seduction.”
She made a rueful face. “Alas, this isn’t a very good time for seduction. When the opening is over, Adam is going to whisk me back to Ashton House. I expect he and my parents will keep me under guard until you and I are safely wed.”
Mac grinned, happier than he’d ever been in his life. “Then we’ll just have to get married soon, won’t we?”
Chapter 44
Kirkland managed to stay upright during the State Opening. The prince regent’s speech was extremely well done. When the man was good, he was very, very good.
After, his profoundest desire was to return to his own home and his own bed and sleep like a stunned ox, but duty led him to stop at his office first. He needed to see if there were any other crises that required his attention. He prayed there wouldn’t be.
He also had to tie up the last ends of this conspiracy. Descending to the cells, he first visited Ollie Brown. “Mr. Brown, you are free to go. I’ve instructed my assistant to purchase a coach ticket to Newcastle for you. He’ll give you enough money that you can eat along the way.”
The young boxer rolled from his cot, eyes alight with happiness. “I can go home? Tomorrow?”
“Indeed you can. If you wish to spend the night here where it’s warm, feel free, but your door will be unlocked. In the morning one of my men will take you to the inn where you can catch your coach north.”
“Thank you, sir!” The boy said shyly, “I’ll be more careful in the future so I won’t fall into trouble again, sir. I swear it.”
“Stay close to those who love you, and accept their guidance.” Oliver Brown’s mind might never fully recover from the damage received in the ring, but with a family to look out for him, he should live a good life far from the dangers of London. Kirkland offered his hand. “Safe journey, Mr. Brown.”
Ollie pumped his hand. “If I ever have a son, I’ll name him after you.”
“Do you know my name?” Kirkland inquired.
Ollie’s face fell. “No, sir, I don’t. But I can call him ‘Sir.’”
Kirkland smiled. “Call him James.”
Wearily he moved to the cell next door, where Paul Clement lay on his cot, his gaze fixed on nothingness. When Kirkland entered, the Frenchman sat up.
“Something has happened. I see it in your face.” His eyes narrowed. “Have you come to commend me to the British justice system as a spy?”
“On the contrary,” Kirkland said. “Your warning about the State Opening of Parliament was invaluable. Through the efforts of my agents, we prevented a bomb from going off that would have killed the prince regent, Princess Charlotte, the prime minister, and half the British peerage.”
Clement’s brows arched. “So that was the plan. I’m glad you were able to prevent such a disaster. Killing the innocent has no place in our work.” He cocked his head. “And the fate of the conspirators?”
Clement still wouldn’t name names, so Kirkland did. “Lord Fendall and Rupert Swinnerton are dead.”
The Frenchman gave a nod of satisfaction. “A fitting end. Have I earned a comfortable imprisonment until the end of the war? If I am truly fortunate, the lovely Parisian widow I was courting might wait for me.”
Kirkland leaned tiredly against the door frame. He wasn’t just physically exhausted, but weary of destroying lives. Drained to the soul by playing God.
But God could be benevolent, and in this case, perhaps Kirkland could be also. “I have a proposition for you, Monsieur Clement. If you’ll give me your word of honor to do no more spying against Britain, I will release you. You can return to your tailor shop and your friends and your Parisian lady. Just promise me that you will never work against my country again.”
The Frenchman caught his breath, hope and disbelief in his eyes. “You would free me in return for my word? You’ll accept my word if I offer it?”
“We settled that when you were first captured, I believe. Are you prepared to go forth and spy no more?”
Clement gave a shaky laugh. “Indeed I will, my lord. And gladly. Spying withers the soul. Will . . . will you take my hand?”
“Indeed I shall, sir.” As they shook hands, a thought struck Kirkland. “I never got around to asking this, but a close friend of mine named Wyndham was captured in France when the Peace of Amiens ended. Nothing has been heard from him since. I suppose he’s long since dead, but . . . I have to ask.”
Clement’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “I may know where the gentleman is. . . .”
Epilogue
Regular newspaper notices of the wedding were as discreet and formal as one might expect, but a popular woman’s magazine ran a longer story with the details their readers loved. Their society reporter wrote:
The nuptials of Sir Damian Mackenzie and Lady Kiri Lawford were celebrated at St. George’s, Hanover Square, followed by a sumptuous wedding breakfast at the home of the bride’s brother, the seventh Duke of Ashton. In an unconventional touch, the bride was given away both by her stepfather, General John Stillwell, the Hero of Hind, and her mother, Princess Lakshmi Lawford Stillwell, the dowager Duchess of Ashton.
Standing up with the happy couple were the bride’s sister, Miss Lucia Stillwell, and the groom’s brother, Major Lord Masterson. His lordship was most dashing in his scarlet regimentals and with his arm in a sling due to injuries suffered on the Peninsula in Noble Service to His Country.
The elderly widow who supplemented her income by writing such pieces paused to nibble on the end of her pencil. Since churches were places of public worship, she was free to attend the weddings, christenings, and funerals of the beau monde. With her gift for friendly chat, she could usually glean enough material from those in attendance to make it appear that she was an invited guest.<
br />
In this case, she wasn’t sure if it was a war wound that Lord Masterson was suffering from. For all she knew, he might have fallen off his horse when drunk. But being wounded in service to his country sounded so much better.
She made a note to learn the name of his regiment later. Some details could be invented with no harm, but one must be accurate about military matters.
She wondered whether she should refer to the fact that the groom’s birth had been . . . irregular. She found it touching that the half brothers were obviously close, but her editor wouldn’t like any references to bastardy.
Best not to discuss the matter of Sir Damian’s reported death, either. She had no idea what the true story was, but his claim that he’d woken up at St. Bart’s some weeks after a head injury sounded like pure gammon to her.
The Duchess of Ashton, a charming, gracious, and enceinte young woman with not a trace of haughtiness, had provided several good nuggets of information. The widow bent to her work again, writing very small because paper was expensive.
The happy couple met because Sir Damian attended the Westerfield Academy with the bride’s brother, the Duke of Ashton. Numerous other distinguished graduates of the school were present. The founder and headmistress, Lady Agnes Westerfield, traveled up from Kent as an honored guest.
The widow worked on the principle that one could never mention titles too often. In her final draft, she would reduce most of the titles to initials for discretion’s sake, but in this version, she preferred to write them out. Best not to reveal that the Westerfield Academy had been founded for boys of “good birth and bad behavior.” That would raise far too many questions in her readers’ minds.
Other guests included Lord Kirkland; Major Alexander Randall, heir to the Earl of Daventry, and his lovely bride, Lady Julia Randall; the Honorable Charles Clarke-Townsend and his wife and daughter; and the Honorable Robert Carmichael.
Should she mention the veiled young guest who’d looked remarkably like Princess Charlotte Augusta? Tempting, very tempting, but the princess had obviously been attending in a purely private capacity. It wasn’t wise to mention royalty when they thought they were being incognito.
Now for the part the widow liked best, which was describing the bride and groom.
The tall and splendidly handsome Sir Damian is a noted leader of fashion, and his military bearing gives evidence of his own Peninsular service.
Oh, a fine and dashing rogue he was, too! He reminded the widow of her own dear husband. When the officiating cleric had asked if anyone knew any reason the marriage should not take place, she’d been tempted to stand up and object on the grounds that she wanted him for herself. She might have done so if she had been thirty years younger. Not that Sir Damian would look at anyone other than the bride he so clearly adored, and that was as it should be.
In a tribute to her mother’s royal Hindoo blood, the demure and beautiful bride wore a magnificent scarlet silk sari with stunning borders of intricate golden embroidery. Her gold necklaces, earrings, and myriad bangle bracelets were also of Hindoo origin.
The widow had been a little shocked to see what looked like intricate brown tattoos on the bride’s slim hands and arms, but the Duchess of Ashton had explained that the designs were temporary and part of Indian wedding tradition.
Nor was the widow convinced of the bride’s demureness. She’d been close enough to the altar to hear General Stillwell—such a fine-looking man, even at his age!—tell Sir Damian that he hoped her husband would do a better job of controlling Lady Kiri than her father had. Sir Damian had just laughed and taken firm hold of his bride’s hand.
The widow suspected that there hadn’t been any surprises on the newlyweds’ wedding night. When they’d come laughing down the aisle as man and wife, the widow had the distinct impression that the couple had sampled the goods and were well pleased with what they’d found. Not that she was one to judge—she and her future husband had anticipated their wedding vows with enthusiasm and as much frequency as they’d been able to manage.
The happy couple will be spending the Christmas holidays with family and friends at the Duke of Ashton’s seat, Ralston Abbey, in Wiltshire. In future they will reside in London and Wiltshire. The union of Sir Damian and Lady Kiri was a splendid joining of East and West that all may rejoice in.
Pleased with her efforts, the widow set down her pencil with a smile. She knew happily ever after when she saw it.
Historical Note
The real Princess Charlotte was much as I have depicted her—a good-hearted girl who had a horrible upbringing, caught between two parents who despised each other. She seems to have lacked the arrogance that usually goes with royalty, and was known to happily chat with the village baker when on holiday in a seaside town.
Charlotte had a rebellious streak, and sneaking off at night to attend a masked ball is by no means unlikely, based on her track record. She did find happiness briefly in her marriage to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saafield, but sadly, she died in childbirth at the age of twenty-one due to bad medical treatment. If she’d had a good midwife, she probably would have been fine.
The doctor whose incompetence cost the lives of Charlotte and her son later committed suicide. It is known as the “triple obstetrical tragedy.”
Since she was the heiress to the throne, her death spurred a frantic rush by her royal uncles to find legitimate wives so they could father heirs to the throne. (Her many uncles preferred mistresses whose children were ineligible to inherit.) Her first cousin, Queen Victoria, would never have been born if Charlotte hadn’t died so young.
The State Opening of Parliament is an enormously grand affair of the sort the British do so well. Princess Charlotte did indeed attend her first State Opening in 1812 and she sat on the Woolsack, luckily without my added melodrama. She was cheered as she arrived. Her father was not. The London public had good taste.
There were times when Napoleon would have welcomed a peace treaty with Britain. His on-again, off-again minister of police, Joseph Fouché, never stopped plotting.
Did you miss the first two books in the Lost Lords series? It starts with LOVING A LOST LORD . . .
In the first of a dazzling series, Mary Jo Putney introduces the Lost Lords—maverick childhood friends with a flair for defying convention. Each is about to discover the woman who is his perfect match—but perfection doesn’t come easily, even for the noble Duke of Ashton.
Battered by the sea, Adam remembers nothing of his past, his ducal rank, nor of the shipwreck that almost claimed his life. However, he’s delighted to hear that the golden-haired vision tending his wounds is his wife. Mariah’s name and face may not be familiar, but her touch, her warmth, feel deliciously right.
When Mariah Clarke prayed for a way to deter a bullying suitor, she didn’t imagine she’d find the answer washed ashore on a desolate beach. Convincing Adam that he is her husband is surprisingly easy. Resisting the temptation to act his wife, in every way, will prove anything but. And now a passion begun in fantasy has become dangerously real—and completely irresistible.
After an eternity of cold water, numbness, and despair, he was dragged ashore. Emerging from the water pulled him from the deathlike trance that had allowed him to survive in the cold water for so long. Dimly he remembered stumbling along with help, sliding into blackness, and then awaking to—perfection.
The woman bending over him seemed more dream than reality, yet the warmth radiating from her was palpable. Her eyes were warm brown and a cloud of golden hair floated around her perfect oval face. She shimmered in the lamp-light. Wondering if he’d drowned and gone to some other realm, he raised an unsteady hand to stroke those finely spun strands. They were gossamer silk against his fingers.
“You’re safe now.” She pulled her long hair back and tied the shining mass in a loose knot at her nape. Her every movement was grace. “Do you speak English?”
He had to think to answer her question. English. Language. Understanding. He l
icked his dry lips and whispered, “Y . . . yes.”
“Good. That will make things easier.” She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him enough to drink. He swallowed thirstily, thinking it strange how much he craved water since it had almost killed him. And it was humiliating that he was so weak that he couldn’t even drink without help.
When he’d had enough, she took the glass away and gently laid him down again. She wore a night robe, and though it covered her thoroughly, her dishabille was deliciously tantalizing. “Such green eyes you have,” she observed. “They are striking with your dark complexion.”
His eyes were green and the rest of him, dark? He shifted his gaze to his right hand and examined it. The skin was medium tan, a half dozen shades darker than her ivory complexion. He realized that he had no idea what he looked like, beyond tan and bruised. Or what he ought to look like.
She continued, “Can you tell me your name?”
He searched his mind and came up with—nothing. No name, no place, no past, just as he had no sense of his own body. That had to be wrong. Panic surged through him, more terrifying than the cold sea that had nearly drowned him. He was nothing, nobody, torn from his past and thrust into an unknown present. The horror of that echoed through every fiber of his being. Struggling to master his fear, he choked out, “I . . . I don’t know.”
Seeing his fear, she caught his cold hand between her warm palms. “You’ve endured a considerable ordeal. After you rest and recover, you will surely remember.” She frowned uncertainly. “Can you have forgotten that I’m your wife, Mariah Clarke?”
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