Page 18 of Temptress in Disguise
Naomi thought how best to word her grievance without sounding feeble. “Lydia always knows best. My thoughts and feelings count for very little.” Lydia believed her experience with men made her superior. “She tells me nothing about her business.”
“You’re not close,” Mr Chance stated.
“No. Unlike your kin, Lydia would not risk her life to save me.” The selfish mare was likely promenading along Brighton pier with a lover, keen to teach the theatre manager a lesson. Naomi had grown tired of Lydia’s lies and excuses and had hired Mr Sloane to uncover the truth. “Oh, I did find Mr Kendrick searching her room. The actor said she had borrowed his copy of the script and flounced out in a dreadful huff.”
Mr Sloane gave a curious hum. “I’ve spoken to Kendrick but will press him for a detailed statement.” He took a swig of ale from his tankard. “I suppose we should return to the matter of marriage. You know the law. It’s a simple case of coverture. As your husband, Mr Chance might appeal to have the will overturned. You’ll need proof of fraud and a decent barrister. Daventry can help with that.”
Naomi cast Mr Chance a sideways glance. It was impossible to distinguish anything from his unreadable expression, but he seemed annoyed whenever someone mentioned Mr Daventry’s name.
The reverend dragged himself from his meal and joined the conversation. “I can marry you tonight in St Augustine’s.”
“You’d be breaking the law,” came Mr Chance’s angry whisper.
“On the contrary, Mr Sloane’s employer obtained a special licence.”
“A special licence?” Mr Chance frowned. “Is it forged? I doubt the Archbishop would grant me such a privilege.”
Mr Sloane was quick to settle any concerns. “Despite your father’s banishment, your uncle is the current Earl of Berridge. Daventry persuaded the Home Secretary to intervene. Solving a serious case of fraud is important to the Crown.”
“What made Daventry so certain I’d agree?”
Mr Sloane shrugged. “He understands how the past can haunt a man and believes vengeance is the only cure. I will act as a witness to the proceedings. Your coachman will serve as the second. Did you bring a ring?”
Mr Chance snorted. “I didn’t have time to procure one.”
With a confident grin, Mr Sloane removed three velvet boxes from his satchel and placed them on the table. He opened them to reveal the gold rings inside—a tiny opal set amongst a cluster of black sapphires, a diamond and pearl cluster, and a ruby solitaire. “They’re on loan from Woodcroft Jewellers on Bond Street. Do you wish to purchase one?”
Mr Chance didn’t give them a second glance. “Pick one, Miss Grant. I shall settle with Woodcroft’s on my return to town.”
She faced him, her stomach churning. “You wish to proceed with the plan? I doubt there’s a solicitor on hand to record your demands.”
He shrugged. “We’ll document them ourselves. Sloane and the reverend will witness our signatures.”
She scanned the rings that surely cost a king’s ransom. “Do you have something simple? A cheap gold band? I do not wish to put Mr Chance to any unnecessary expense.”
Mr Chance sat forward. “Money is no object. If it’s to remain on your finger, I would rather you choose something pleasing.”
Mr Sloane chuckled. “Take advantage of his generosity, Miss Grant. It’s not often Aramis Chance considers a woman’s needs.”
Not wanting to offend him by suggesting she settle the bill when she received her inheritance, she studied the rings on the table.
Being tenderhearted, she opted for the obvious choice. “If it fits, I should like the sapphire and opal cluster.”
The white stone was a symbol of hope and purity. Like Mr Chance’s dominant aura, the black sapphires represented power and protection. The contrast was striking. Beautiful.
She tried it for size. Much like her betrothed, it was a fraction too big. “Once on, I doubt it will slip past my knuckle. I can have it altered in town.”
Being suddenly impatient, the reverend suggested they remove to the church so he might conduct the proceedings. “I have a sermon on gluttony to write, though it will be wasted on this rabble.”
Mr Sloane fetched paper and ink and laughed when he heard Mr Chance’s list of demands. Still, both witnesses signed the document, which Mr Chance folded and slipped into his coat pocket.
The sombre stone church of St Augustine’s stood nestled in shadow between a copse and desolate fields. A lonely place that did nothing to settle her nerves. Amid the stillness of the night, the air was cool, the moon serene, yet every step along the narrow path took immense effort.
Would she come to regret her decision?
In attempting to solve one problem, would she encounter another?
Mr Chance’s deep sigh spoke of grave reservations. He trudged beside her like a man in mourning.
