Page 39 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Papa has yet to apprise me of the nature of your exchange. Had my sisters not told me of your call, I’d have no notion you’d come by.”
Sir Fletcher steered Megan too close to the edge of the dance floor, for she nearly bumped into Joseph, Earl of Keswick.
“Then you will find the time to speak with your papa privately,” Sir Fletcher said, “and before he chases your mama into the Welsh countryside. It’s disgraceful, a couple that age making an annual wedding journey. You and I will have more decorum, once you provide me with a few sons.”
Oh, yes, Sir Fletcher. At once, Sir Fletcher. Three healthy boys by Christmas, Sir Fletcher.
He would happily see Megan die in childbed, if it meant he bested his brothers in the race to provide the old earl a potential heir. As Megan had tossed and turned last night away, she’d concluded that Sir Fletcher’s impetuous wooing years ago had been more about that race than preparing for this subsequent courting-by-blackmail.
Westhaven went twirling by, his countess in his arms. Megan knew them by how they danced as a couple, by their absolute unity of movement.
“I do not speak for my father’s schedule, Sir Fletcher. I have been available to him, but you must allow for the notion that his lordship has a mind of his own. He’s a duke’s son, after all.”
The relevant truth was even simpler. Papa and Mama were partners in all matters of significance, and Papa would not have given Sir Fletcher leave to court Megan without first consulting Mama.
And Mama, bless her soul for all eternity, was preoccupied with preparations for the upcoming journey.
“Lord Anthony will consultyouregarding the acceptability of my addresses?” Sir Fletcher seemed puzzled by such consideration.
Of course Papa would.“Mama might have you in mind for one of my sisters, or have another arrangement under consideration for me. If Papa didn’t give you a direct answer, he had reasons of his own.”
Sir Fletcher studied Megan for the duration of two eight-measure phrases. The waltz was in a minor key, which made the dance more dramatic and haunting. She’d never hear this tune again without feeling a sense of dread bordering on panic.
“You will approach your father at breakfast tomorrow,” Sir Fletcher said. “Demand to know why I met with him, express your rapturous support for my suit. An announcement must be made soon, and a date set not long after that if I’m to put a babe in your belly before the shooting begins in August.”
Lovely.First take aim at the wife, then at the grouse. A fine set of priorities. Sir Fletcher would beat Meganincessantly once he married her, and no earthly power could preserve her from his demands.
“I will do my best to accost Papa at the very next opportunity.” Megan would also do her best to ensure no such opportunity arose.
The waltz built toward its final crescendo, which afforded Sir Fletcher an excuse to lean closer. He smelled of roses, but beneath that Megan picked up old sweat and stale tobacco. His breath was foul, and dancing this closely, Megan could see that Sir Fletcher’s artfully styled golden locks had already begun to recede.
“I have considered compromising you,” he said, “in the interests of dispensing with all of this posturing and preening. I still might. My creditors are not a patient lot.”
Panic became real for an instant, a sense of all the air disappearing from Megan’s lungs, all the reason deserting her mind. Blind flight from the dance floor and even from England loomed as the only solution to the problems her lack of judgment had created.
She was on the point of jerking out of Sir Fletcher’s arms—what a scandal that would cause!—when sanity reasserted itself. At that very moment, Murdoch might already have retrieved her letters. She might have won free through the good, stealthy offices of an ally she could never have anticipated relying on even two weeks ago.
“You have already compromised me, Sir Fletcher,” Megan said. “Announcing that fact now will reflect onyourfamily as well as mine. You have unmarried sisters as well as older brothers who need wives, and you are one dance away from being branded a fortune hunter. Show yourself to be the scapegrace younger brother, and your papa might well cut you off. Moreland could send me to the country to repent of my supposed sins rather than grant us leave to marry.”
The dance came to an end, and Megan dropped into the expected curtsy. Sir Fletcher drew her up, and waited while other couples filed off the dance floor.
“Such a sensible little thing you are,” he said, patting her hand. “I have, of course, already weighed those factors, which is why I await your father’s leave to court you. See that my patience is rewarded, my dear, or it will go the worse for you. I can spread enough rumor to ruin you without creating scandal outright.”
His smile was indulgent, his caresses to Megan’s hand made her skin crawl. She sent up a prayer for Murdoch’s skills at thievery, and smiled right back.
Chapter Nine
Megan Windham’s recall of the Pilkington townhouse had been blessedly accurate. She’d drawn Hamish a map, right down to where a portrait of dueling fencers hung and on which side of the library fireplace the hearth tools stood.
Noisy business, when cast iron pokers went clattering against the bricks.
The third window Hamish tried—the family parlor—had been carelessly closed, so the latch had been easy to coax open. The rest had been a matter of hoisting, twisting, and silently cursing while praying the floorboards wouldn’t creak.
The library desk was locked, which gave Hamish hope that, indeed, Megan’s letters were secreted therein. He’d inserted a pick into the keyhole and begun the delicate process of easing the mechanism open when a question rang out through the darkness.
“Are you a thief?”
Hamish straightened slowly, searching the shadows of the darkened library. “Of course not, miss.”
