That sounded very much like the lofty sentiments Miss Irene Deverill had trotted out two days before. Fine enough in theory, he supposed, but wholly untenable in reality.
Still, as he studied his mother’s resolute expression, he decided another shift in tactics was in order.
“Have you thought of how this will affect the marital prospects of your daughters?” he asked.
“Of course I have.”
“Then you know your marriage will considerably diminish their chances of making a good match themselves.”
“That depends on one’s definition of a good match, doesn’t it? I would say that because of my marriage, my daughters will soon be able to determine which gentlemen of their acquaintance genuinely care for them, and which only care for their position in society.”
“As if position is not important.”
“Henry, do you really think worrying about my matrimonial future or even that of your sisters is your most vital concern?”
That took him back a step. “Of course it is of vital concern. You are my family.”
She leaned forward, close enough to put her hand over his. “My dear, perhaps instead of worrying about my matrimonial future or that of your sisters, you should be considering your own. Elena passed away eight years ago, freeing you to marry again. David is your only heir,” she rushed on as he opened his mouth to reply, “and he is married six years now, with no children. You must marry again. You know that.”
“I am well aware of my duty, Mama. There is no need to remind me of it.”
“Falling in love is not a duty, Henry.”
“Are we back to talking of love?” he countered. “Forgive me, but I thought we were now talking of marriage.”
His mother gazed at him with sadness. “Oh, my dear,” she said, “I begin to fear the romance you once had in your soul may be irretrievably gone.”
“If so, I cannot help but find that a good thing.” He met his mother’s unhappy gaze with an implacable one of his own. “We both know the task of choosing one’s marriage partner is a serious business for people like us, Mama. It’s not a frivol. Marry in haste, repent at leisure may be the course you seem bent upon, but for myself, I will not choose it twice in one lifetime.”
“We love who we love, Henry. Love can’t bend to one’s will.”
“Stop,” he said fiercely. “Stop speaking of my marriage to Elena as if I had no choice. I forgot who I was, and where my duty lay, and I allowed passion to dictate my course. The result was tragic for all concerned. Do not spare me or excuse me, for I certainly shall not spare or excuse myself.”
She studied him for a moment, opened her mouth as if to argue further on the topic, then closed it again, much to his relief. “Very well,” she said quietly. “Just which young ladies of our acquaintance might enable you to do your duty most commendably?”
He ignored the acidic note of her voice. “I am considering several, but my matrimonial future shall have to wait until yours is settled, so stop trying to deflect the conversation.”
“It is settled, my dear boy, whether you like it or not. Fifteen days from now, Antonio and I will be married, and try though you will, you cannot stop it.”
That remained to be seen. “I assume Foscarelli has the blunt to support you?”
“Why? Are you threatening to cut off my portion if I marry him? Now who’s behaving as if I’m nineteen?”
Henry was shocked. “I have no intention of cutting off your allowance from the estate, Mama. I know you do not need it, but it is yours by right. I cannot imagine any circumstances in which I would ever deny it to you. On the other hand, I confess I am not thrilled it shall end up in the hands of a man who cannot seem to support himself, much less a wife.”
“Really? That will be news to David and Jamie.”
“It is not the same thing, Mama, as you are well aware. Jamie and David are family, and their allowances from the estate are a given, as is yours. Antonio Foscarelli is not family.”
“He soon will be. Still, you have no need to worry that my allowance from the estate shall be needed to support him.”
“Yes, no doubt because he is counting on a substantial marriage settlement from me.”
“Not at all. There will be no need for you to give him any money.”
“No need? Mama, if you’re saying he isn’t to receive a penny, I heartily endorse that decision, but I have the uneasy feeling that is not what you mean.”
“It isn’t. I am settling a sum on Antonio out of my private funds as a dowry.”
Henry wasn’t surprised by this news, but nonetheless, his guts twisted into a sick knot of dismay. “I see. So you have already visited our solicitors and drafted the marital agreement?”
She gave a little shrug. “I mentioned to Antonio that you would expect one to be drawn up.”
That wasn’t the same thing, but Henry refrained from pointing out the fact. “And what,” he said instead, “was Foscarelli’s reply to that?”
“He’s not fond of the idea.”
“How shocking.”
She seemed to miss the sarcasm. “His people don’t believe in that sort of thing, and frankly, neither do I. Most people don’t. It’s a very modern view, Henry. Formal documents and discussions of money . . . I cannot help thinking it sordid. Besides, the law protects my property well enough. The Married Women’s Property Acts—”
“Mama,” he cut her off, “the law as it stands now is all very well, but in practical terms, it’s a sticky wicket, particularly if people separate later. A prenuptial agreement would do no harm.”
“I refuse to enter my marriage anticipating its demise.”
Henry took a deep breath, reminding himself it was best to fight one battle at a time. A marriage settlement only became relevant if he couldn’t stop the marriage from happening. “You say you intend to settle a sum on him. How much?”
“Fifty thousand pounds.”
The enormity of the sum sent any notions he had of being calm and reasonable to the wall. That swine, he thought, rage rising within him as he appreciated how Foscarelli must have worked on her to persuade her to such an exorbitant amount. That worthless, fortune-hunting swine. “God, Mama,” he managed after a moment, “that’s nearly half your fortune.”
“I’m well aware of that. But offering a dowry is perfectly acceptable, as you know. A man can’t be having to beggar pin money from his wife each month.”
“Yes, yes, God forbid fortune-hunters be kept in check with a pesky allowance.”
“Really, Henry, must you be crass?”
“Yes, Mama, it seems I must, if only to prevent you from being a fool. You know you will have to sell out half your personal capital to raise that amount of money?”
“Of course.”
“I do not understand you, Mama,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, trying to think. “Why not just put him on a quarterly allowance? Why does he need a dowry at all, especially such a vast one? Fifty thousand pounds is an enormous sum. Why would you—”
He stopped, realizing in a sudden, horrific flash of insight what his mother was doing. “My God, you’re spiking my guns.”
She looked away, staring down at her fingertips as they idly traced the intricate embroidery of a sofa pillow. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. I came here assuming you weren’t aware of the true nature of his suit, but now I see that I was mistaken. You know full well what sort of man you are marrying, and you don’t care.” He gave a laugh of utter disbelief. “Your motives for being such a fool prove you an even greater fool. You realize that?”
He regretted his words at once, even before she spoke.
“If you insult me again,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “this discussion is over.”
Henry rubbed his hands over his face, cursing himself for being so blind that he hadn’t put a stop to the Italian’s machinations months ago, cursing his usually sensible mother for being so damned foolhardy, and curs
ing Lady Truelove for aiding and abetting it all. It was several moments before he could trust himself to speak.
“Let us leave off discussions of money for the moment,” he said, working to think. Talking his mother out of this could not be accomplished in one conversation, that was clear. He needed time, and as much information as he could glean. Only then could he figure out how to prevent her from taking the foolhardy course she was bent upon. “Where are these nuptials to take place, if I may ask? Neither the ducal chapel nor our parish church shall be appropriate under the circumstances, since he is a Catholic.”
“You say that as if it’s akin to having the plague.”
“If he had the plague, I would celebrate,” Henry muttered. “Are you prepared to convert? You’ll have to, you know. Or he will.”
“There is no need for conversion. We shall not marry in any church, but at the Registry Office. You are welcome to come, though I’m sure you won’t wish to.”
“Oh, I will be there, you may be sure. If only to object when the magistrate puts the question.”
“Henry, I have made my decision. These attempts to bully me into submission are futile.”
“Bully you?” Henry was affronted by the accusation. “God, Mama, are the suffragist views of Lady Truelove contagious? What is all this talk of bullying and submission?”
“I had plenty of that sort of thing from your father,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, her voice growing markedly colder as she mentioned her late husband. “Over twenty years of it, in fact. I don’t need to tolerate it from my son.”
“That is not fair, Mama.”
“As you already pointed out, I am fifty years old, so I fail to see how my choice of whom to marry is any of your concern, Torquil.”
The use of his title and the withering tone of her voice were too much to bear. “Because I love you, damn it! That makes it my concern.”
Her gaze softened at once. “Oh, my dear.”
He looked away, feeling suddenly awkward and vulnerable, the two emotions he despised above all others, and he was compelled to move onto safer ground. “It is my duty as head of the family,” he said in his best ducal voice, “to do all I can to ensure the well-being and security of all my relations. That includes you, Mama.” He looked at her again. “Could you really expect any less of me?”
“Dearest Henry,” she murmured. “Of all my children, you are the one who has always worried me the most.”
“I?” He stared at her, astonished by this revelation. “Why, in heaven’s name?”
“Because you fight so hard against your own nature.”
He stiffened. So much for safer ground. “I have no idea what you mean,” he lied.
“Yes, you do. Ever since you were a boy, you have striven to be the son your father wanted you to be. But he was an uncompromising sort of man, with a rigid sense of duty, a cold heart, and a puritanical moral compass. He did his best to make you the same, and any influence I may have had over your early life was blunted by him at every turn. When he and I discovered your secret, that you had broken free and married a tobacconist’s daughter, it was the shock of his life. I, however, was not all that surprised. There is an element of me inside of you, you see.” She smiled a little. “I’ve always known that.”
“And you think that particular part of us a good thing? Mama, my passion for Elena was a disastrous mistake.”
“I know you think so. But I cannot agree. You loved her, I know it. Despite what you say or however you may define the emotion, you loved her, and to my mind, love is never a mistake, even if it brings pain, even if it does not last.”
He exhaled a sharp sigh. “Perhaps that it so, Mama, but marriage is not like love. Marriage is permanent. If it proves a mistake, there’s no getting out of it, not for our sort.”
“Yes, but it is possible to have both marriage and love, my dear.”
He gave an unamused laugh. “Yes, well, that is the trick, isn’t it?”
She reached out, her hand closing over his. “Elena has been gone eight years, your father nearly as long. I know you are wary of trusting your own judgment in this, but can you not now open your heart again to the more tender emotions of life? For I fear if you do not do it soon, you may not be able to do it at all.”
This conversation, Henry decided, was accomplishing nothing. “We seem to be talking in circles.” He pulled his hand away and rose. “Therefore, I shall take my leave.”
“Oh, Henry, don’t go all prickly and stiff and act as if you have ice water in your veins. I know you too well to be deceived. All I am trying to say is that while I know you will never be the sort to wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t bury it so deep that you suffocate it to death.”
“My heart, since we are talking of it, is suffering at this moment. On your behalf, Mama. No, wait,” he went on as she tried to speak. He had one card left to play, and he needed to play it while he could. “Allow me to finish. As I said, if you stay here during the next two weeks, people we know will observe you coming and going from this hotel. They will come to call; they will question you.”
“I shall tell them nothing.”
“Then they will draw their own conclusions and spread those conclusions as fact. And you can be sure whatever the talk, it will not reflect favorably upon you, your daughters, or any of your other relations. Wouldn’t it be better to just come home? Stay in your own residence until . . .” He paused, working to force the words out. “Until the wedding?”
“And listen to you disparage Antonio to me at every opportunity in an attempt to change my mind about him?”
“I won’t do that. I give you my word I will not speak ill of him in your hearing. And I will make certain the other members of the family exercise the same restraint.”
His mother might be acting foolishly at the moment, but she was not, as her next words proved, a fool. “You may not disparage Antonio in my hearing, but I have no doubt you will nonetheless make every attempt to change my mind and circumvent my course.”
There was no point in denial. “I will do that, Mama, whether you come home or you remain here.”
“True.” She paused, considering, and after a moment, she nodded, much to his relief. “Very well, then, I will return home.”
“And will you promise me that you will be discreet in regard to your marriage plans until the wedding has taken place?”
“There’s hardly any point to that now, since everyone is bound to guess from Lady Truelove’s column that I am the woman who wrote to her about him.”
“People may guess, but until the wedding, they will not know. And in the interim, I should like Sarah and Angela to enjoy what remains of the season.”
“Very well. You may be assured of my discretion. I will arrive home this evening, in time for sherry before dinner.”
Relieved, he bowed. “Then I shall see you this evening.” He turned to go, but he had barely reached the doorway before her voice called to him.
“Henry?”
He paused to look at her over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“I don’t suppose it shall make any difference to your point of view about this situation, or your low opinion of him, but Antonio makes me very happy.”
“If that is so, I hope I can find some consolation in the fact.”
With that, he departed, and though he had achieved one of his objectives in coming here, the other still loomed over their future like an impending storm, and he had no intention of giving up.
On the other hand, he doubted that hammering home the Italian’s many flaws, offering up the reports of private investigators, and presenting his mother with the gossip column accounts of Foscarelli’s past activities would accomplish anything. She knew what a scoundrel he was, that was clear, and the harder he pushed, the more likely she was to dig in her heels. But to sway her against this marriage, what other options did he have?
“Your Grace?”
“Hmm?” Startled out of these contemplations, he looked up
to find his driver beside him. He’d been so lost in thought, he didn’t even remember taking the lift down to the foyer or exiting the hotel, but he must have done both, for he was now standing on the sidewalk, his brougham in front of him and his driver holding the door open.
“Sorry, Treves,” he said and stepped into the vehicle, his mind still racing to decide his next step. Fortunately, he’d barely settled back on the seat before inspiration struck.
He wasn’t likely to have much success in persuading his mother against the course she’d chosen, but he was not the only person she might listen to. “Take me to my solicitors, Treves,” he said. “Asgarth and Hopwood, 17 Norfolk Street.”
Chapter 5
“No, no, this won’t do at all.” Using a fat lead pencil, Irene crossed out yet another paragraph of the typewritten column that had been handed to her a short time ago by the young woman sitting across from her. “No one cares a jot about Lady Godfrey’s pet parakeet. You’re Delilah Dawlish, London’s most sensational gossip columnist. You’re supposed to titillate your readers, not bore them to death.”
The young woman on the other side of the desk, whose real name was not Delilah Dawlish, but the much more prosaic one of Josie Blount, grimaced at this criticism. “It’s rubbish, I know,” she said, “but there’s not a speck of interesting news to be had just now. The season’s nearly over. Until the Glorious Twelfth when the house parties start . . .” Her voice trailed off and she spread her hands in a gesture of futility. “There’s just nothing new to talk about.”
“There must be something more interesting than the death of a parakeet.” Irene tapped her pencil against the pages on her desk, thinking hard. “What about house parties, since we’re talking of those? Anything newsworthy there?”
Before Josie could answer, a tap on her door interrupted, and Irene looked up to find Clara in the doorway. “The Duke of Torquil is here to see you.”
Irene groaned. “For heaven’s sake, what does that man want now?”
“Now?” Josie sat upright in her chair, her keen eyes narrowing with speculation as she studied her employer, her excellent investigative instincts aroused. “The Duke of Torquil is here? And he has been here before?”
The Truth About Love and Dukes Page 6