School For Heiresses 2- Only a Duke Will Do (15 page)

Sidmouth’s thin lips twisted into a sneer. “How do you mean to stop them? By marrying Miss North? When she turns down every suitor?”

“She will not turn me down,” Simon retorted. “In time—”

“Time! We don’t have time. Every day her group marshals more women to its cause. Before you know it, they’ll be supporting several candidates for election, the Commons will be overrun with radicals, and we’ll have another Manchester Patriotic Union Society on our hands—”

“And then you will make sure they are arrested or murdered at St. Peter’s Field, the way you did the members of the Manchester Society,” Simon bit out.

Sidmouth paled and Castlereagh gasped. But before either could speak, Simon added, “No, you cannot do that, can you? Because it is one thing to arrest farmers demanding representation in the government. It is quite another to arrest society ladies trying to clothe prison children and prevent poor women from being raped by their guards.”

Sidmouth drew himself up with the haughty condescension he was known for. “Whose side are you on, Foxmoor?”

Only with an effort did Simon gain control over his temper. What insanity had prompted him to speak so bluntly? Probably all his reading about the “Peterloo Massacre,” as the radicals called it. In India he had only read the Times version, which, though sympathetic to the crowd, had not been nearly as chilling as that of the radical press.

He steeled himself to speak the lie. “Yours, of course.”

“I begin to wonder,” Sidmouth snapped. “I had thought you meant to step into your grandfather’s shoes. But he would have lauded my response to the St. Peter’s Field affair. Monteith knew that the people require a firm hand.”

“And I am not Monteith,” he said tersely. “Nonetheless, you and I do share some concerns. I agree that Miss North and her friends are in over their pretty heads. And if we want to prevent another St. Peter’s Field ‘affair,’ we’d best fish them out of the pond before they drown us all.” He fixed Sidmouth with a cool glance. “But you must give me time to work.”

So that when this was over, he could make sure lords of Sidmouth’s ilk no longer ruled England with an iron fist. Simon was certainly never going to tolerate such a man in his cabinet. Sidmouth cast him a grudging nod. “Very well. But only a little, or we will take matters into our own hands.”

The devil they would. Keeping a tight rein on his temper, he nodded. “Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I am late for an engagement.”

If he stayed one more second in Sidmouth’s presence, he would say something he would regret. But damn, the man infuriated him. Couldn’t he see that if they did not deal with those who wanted representation, they would continue to find themselves at the mercy of angry mobs? No, Sidmouth was from a different age, still living in fear of an English version of the Reign of Terror. Simon strode out of the club, pausing only to retrieve his hat and cloak from the porter and call for his phaeton to be brought ’round. He had done all the reading he could stomach this evening. He had discovered more than he had bargained for. He’d hoped to figure out which friends of the London Ladies Society were likely candidates for the Commons. Instead, he had read countless articles praising their work, lauding the good they had brought about despite fools like Sidmouth. But that had been the radical papers. There were grumblings in the more traditional press. Just the usual complaints about women dabbling in matters beyond their purview, but unnerving all the same. It alarmed him to think how close they skated to the edge, especially now that they meant to move into politics. As he headed for home, he thrust his unease aside. Tomorrow he would get another chance at changing Louisa’s resolve regarding marriage. Until then, there was nothing he could do. Besides, he had something else to work on. With his days spent at Parliament or wooing Louisa, and his nights filled with social affairs that he could not ignore if he meant to reenter politics, he’d had little time for researching Colin’s situation. But he could not put it off. He had a promise to keep, after all. As soon as he reached home, he called his butler into his study. “Fetch me another box of Grandfather Monteith’s letters.” Simon peeled off his coat. “And have one of the footmen bring me a cold supper. I didn’t eat at the club.”

“Very good, sir.”

As his butler headed off, Simon looked around for Raji, whom he spotted dozing in his favorite spot by the fire. The study was the monkey’s temporary cage when he wasn’t tramping about with Simon. The servants were careful not to release him if the door was closed.

Simon lit more candles and prepared for a long evening of dusty work sifting through Grandfather Monteith’s letters, but he had little hope of finding anything. The man had been too wily to leave incriminating documents behind. He had probably burned the pertinent letters as soon as he received them.

Still, he might have missed one. Or an otherwise innocuous letter might refer to someone who could corroborate Colin’s claim. Simon had to try.

After his butler returned with the box, Simon settled down at his desk with it. But after a mere hour, his eyes began to glaze over. Damn his grandfather for keeping every piece of correspondence from every lackey. Though Simon could skip some merely by noting the signature, he had to wade through plenty of others. He never knew when a note from the steward might contain an important reference. Simon had just sat back to eat his sandwich when his butler entered the room. “Lord Draker is here to see you, sir. Are you at home to him?”

Simon had half expected this visit ever since Saturday night, but he was not in the mood for his brother-in-law’s lectures now.

Still, he didn’t want Draker for an enemy. “Yes, send him in.” He barely had time to check that Raji was still asleep before his mountainous relation entered.

“Evening, Foxmoor,” the viscount bit out.

“Evening, Draker.” Simon caught his butler’s eye and said, “Leave us,” then rose and strolled to a side table to pour himself a glass of brandy.

After Draker closed the door behind the butler, Simon held up the decanter to him, one eyebrow raised. When the viscount nodded, Simon poured him a glass, as well, then walked over to hand it to him. “Isn’t it a little late in the evening for paying social calls?”

“You know damned well this isn’t a social call.”

If his brother-in-law could be blunt, so could he. “You were obviously unhappy to see Louisa with me Saturday night.” Simon walked back to sit behind his desk.

“Unhappy isn’t the word.” Draker dropped into a seat before the desk. “But I promised Regina I’d stay out of it.” Scowling, he gulped some brandy. “Of course, that was before I heard that you paid a call on my sister today. Bearing flowers. After she’d assured me that you had no romantic interest in her.”

“She told you that?” Simon set down his brandy glass so hard that some sloshed over onto the desk. Scowling, he mopped it up with the napkin from his supper tray. “Bloody stubborn female—”

“Watch it, Foxmoor, that’s my sister you’re talking about.”

Simon eyed him coolly. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought the same.”

Draker stared at him, then gave the barest nod. “She can be a little difficult sometimes.”

“Difficult? Is that what you call it when a woman pretends not to have an interest in you, when you know she bloody well—” Mindful of who he spoke to, Simon modulated his tone. “I am courting your sister. And whether she will admit it to you, it is a fact I have made quite clear to her.”

Eyes narrowing, Draker sat back in his chair. “Perhaps she’s having trouble believing you.”

“Deuce take it, first I get it from her, and now from you.” Simon reached for his knife and the block of wood atop his desk, then began to whittle with sharp, angry strokes. “You two make quite a pair—

suspicious as hell, always sure that the world is out to betray you.”

“Not the world,” Draker said dryly. “Just you.”

Simon paused to fix Draker with a baleful stare. “I mean to marry her, and this time I do not need your consent. Louisa is perfectly capable of making her own decisions. So you might as well resign yourself to it.”

“I’m not resigning myself to anything until I’m sure of your reasons.”

“They are the same as any man’s who wants to marry a woman,” he hedged. “I think she will make me a good wife, and I enjoy her company—”

“And you’re in love with her?”

Avoiding Draker’s gaze, Simon returned to his whittling with a vengeance. He ought to lie, but lying to her and her family was what landed him in trouble last time, and he meant to go about things better this time. “The king once claimed I am incapable of love, and I fear he is probably right. But I do feel a great deal of affection for her.”

“That doesn’t exactly reassure me,” Draker growled.

“I know. But I am trying to be truthful.” His gaze swung to Draker. “I figure you deserve that.”

Draker stared him down, coldly, assessingly.

“Perhaps this will put your mind at ease.” Setting aside his whittling, Simon removed something from a drawer and flung it across the desk.

As Draker scanned the thick sheaf of papers, an incredulous expression filled his scarred face. “This is a marriage settlement.”

“Yes. I had it drawn up last week. As you can tell, she will have a generous allowance, a jointure for our children, a—”

“I doubt she’ll care much about that. Well, except for the children.” To Simon’s surprise, Draker smiled.

“Though the existence of a marriage settlement does set to rest one of my suspicions.”

“Oh?”

“Never mind.” He read over the settlement, then sat back with a smug look on his face. “Rather cocksure about your chances, aren’t you?”

“I was until this morning,” he grumbled, feeling companionable now that Draker was being decent about the whole thing. “Your sister can be as cold as an arctic winter when she wants.”

“Blame Regina for that. Louisa has adopted your sister’s old manner to perfection.” Draker stared down into his brandy. “I should warn you, Louisa claims to have no interest in marrying anyone.”

“Regina said the same thing up until the night she agreed to marry you.”

“After I compromised her.” Draker’s gaze shot to him. “I hope you’re not planning anything like that.”

“Planning it? No.” Simon brooded a moment, before adding, in the spirit of honesty, “But I cannot promise that it will not happen. When it comes to Louisa, I seem to have trouble—” He broke off as Draker’s face started to darken. “All I can promise is that I will do my best to avoid it.”

Though Draker’s expression was still clouded, he did not say anything. He just sat back against his chair and drank his brandy.

After a moment, Simon ventured a comment. “You do not seem as upset as I expected about the possibility that I might marry Louisa.”

Draker swirled his brandy. “I can’t be upset about something that might not happen. And the truth is…”

He sighed. “I worry about her obsession with the London Ladies. Theirs is a good cause, I’ll grant you. But I can’t help thinking—”

“That she deserves more.”

Draker’s gaze shot to him. “Exactly. There was a time when I thought I had no chance of ever marrying. It was a long and lonely part of my life I would not wish on anyone, especially my sister.”

“Nor would I.” Simon tapped the block of wood, then sighed. “See here, Draker, I know we have had our differences, and I would not blame you for despising me after what I did to Louisa seven years ago. But I am not the same man I was then.” He met his brother-in-law’s gaze. “I think I can make her a good husband. And I will treat her with the kindness and respect she deserves.”

Rising from his chair, Draker set down his empty glass. “See that you do.” He leaned on the desk, his massive shoulders set for battle. “Because if you hurt my sister, I swear I will kill you, brother-in-law or no.”

Simon met his gaze without flinching. “I understand.” Forcibly, he restrained the urge to point out that Draker would only succeed if he did it with his bare hands, because Simon could beat him in a duel of sword or pistols with one hand tied behind his back.

Draker headed for the door, then paused. “I wanted to ask you about one other matter. Ever since Regina heard that your aide-de-camp’s name was Colin Hunt, she’s been curious to know if it’s mere coincidence that his surname is the same as your late uncle who served in India. Regina said she even asked you about it in a letter, but you didn’t answer.”

Simon’s fingers curled around the block of wood on his desk. “It’s a common enough name.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He drew himself up. “And I think Regina has a right to know if she has a cousin somewhere, even an illegitimate one.”

“I agree.” A sigh escaped Simon’s lips. “But I am not sure of the answer.”

Draker arched one eyebrow. “Not sure? Or not willing to say?”

“Not sure.” He gestured to the letters. “I am looking into it right now, as a matter of fact.”

“Does he claim to be your uncle’s by-blow?” Draker asked.

“No.” That was the absolute truth, although what it left out was so enormous as to be staggering.

“Yet you are looking into it.”

“Yes. I promise that you and Regina will be the first to know when I get an answer.” He wasn’t about to drop that surprise into their laps without being absolutely certain that he could prove his assertions. After Draker left, he returned to his desk and took up another letter. Despite his exhaustion and having to get up early in the morning to be at Newgate to help Louisa, he needed to know the truth. Only then could he make amends for his dreadful misjudgment at Poona.

Chapter Twelve

Dear Charlotte,

I recently learned that Foxmoor spoke privately to Lord Sidmouth on Monday. It may mean nothing, but given the Home Secretary’s acrimony for the London Ladies, I would caution you and your friends to be on your guard.

Your concerned cousin,

Michael

T he sun had barely lifted its nose above the horizon Tuesday morning when Louisa faced down Brutus the Bully inside the gates of Newgate Prison.

Louisa had privately dubbed Mr. Treacle that, because the guard had been nothing but trouble ever since the London Ladies had hired a matron to replace him, resulting in his reassignment to the men’s wards. Brutus didn’t like that, oh no. The male prisoners weren’t nearly as useful for his lascivious tastes. If she’d had her way, he would have been dismissed from the prison long ago, but his cousin was Mr. Brown, governor of the prison, so that was that.