Page 10 of The Lyon Whisperer
“I disagree. Regardless, the point is, you had no right meddling in my private affairs. Why on earth would you dare? Oh, yes, to protect your own hide.”
He’d have to set his uncle to rights, of course. He could never leave Harry and Aunt Francine to hang in the wind, especially after they’d stepped in all those years ago, offering Chase the home and security his own parents had denied him. But to shackle himself for a lifetime to someone to satisfy a bet—
His uncle’s words cut into his thoughts. “This time is different, or I’d never have overstepped. This time helping us helps you.”
Chase slanted him a leery glance. “How?”
“You ask the wrong question.”
“Which is?”
“Who you’ll be marrying.”
Chase sent his troublesome, well-meaning, beloved uncle a cool smile. “Because it does not signify. I will not do it. Not this time. You ask too much.”
His uncle made a pretense of inspecting his nails, clearly biding his time, waiting for Chase to bite.
Chase cursed his too-curious nature. “Very well, who?”
Harry’s interest in his manicure vanished in a heartbeat. “Lady Amelia Duval.”
Chase’s expression did not alter but remained carefully neutral. He knew it did because he’d long ago mastered the art of feigned indifference. It was an essential skill when managing a regiment of men facing life and death situations.
Or dealing with an overset parent.
“Lady Amelia Duval,” he said as if testing the name against his memory. “The Earl of Fallsgate’s daughter?” Otherwise known as the black-haired vixen with the violet eyes and honeyed voice currently haunting his dreams.
For days he’d scoured his brain for a legitimate excuse to call on the earl in the hopes he’d cross paths with his audacious daughter once more. He was sure his memory, likely a result of having ingested the earl’s prized brandy prior to laying eyes on her, had exaggerated the woman’s appeal, and he could think of no other way to set the record straight.
His uncle’s dark eyes, so similar to his own, glittered with shrewd understanding. “The earl’sonlydaughter,” he said with feeling. “I couldn’t help but notice your attempts to manufacture a reason to visit the earl again.”
He stiffened, his hand gripping the armrest of his chair. Good God, had he been that obvious?
“You got the idea the earl’s support might be your best chance at getting your measures passed concerning the veterans—and you’re absolutely right, m’boy. Fallsgate’s support would assure your success, and marrying his daughter is sure to garner his support, if you see what I mean.”
So he hadn’t given himself away. Not entirely.
“The earlwouldmake a mighty ally.” Chase rose and moved back to the window. He stared out at the manicured garden and courtyard, recalling the money he’d raised recently to pay off the designer. A pretty penny. “But this makes no sense. Why would Fallsgate feel the need to foist his daughter off on any man? She is the daughter of an earl, and not exactly hard on the eyes.”
Behind him, his uncle cackled with glee and slapped his thigh. “Not hard on the eyes? Noticed, did ya’? As for the rest, apparently she has a few seasons under her petticoats with nary a husband to show for it.”
Chase glanced over his shoulder at his uncle. “And?”
“And, well, that brings us to the second part of this arrangement.”
Chase narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”
He smiled benignly. “Come, sit. I’ll pour us a drink and explain everything. If you do not agree this marriage is in everyone’s best interest when I’ve completed my tale, you’re free to walk away and abandon your aunt and me to the workhouse.”
Chase snorted. Uncle Harry could have trod the boards.
He strode back to his armchair and prepared to be enlightened.
At three-thirty p.m.the following afternoon, the gleaming black carriage emblazoned with the Fallsgate crest, a goat dressed in a coat of arms, arrived at number 7 Dove Street, the home of the widowed Lady Harriet Oglethorpe and her good friend, Ms. Margaret Sheridan.
The distinguished-looking townhome was the usual meeting place for the members of the Ladies’ Literary Society of London, affectionately, the LLS. But today’s was not an ordinary meeting. Today, an emergency gathering had been called.
Not bothering to wait for the carriage step, and the time it would take for the coachman to place it, Amelia leapt to the pavement and sent a cheery wave to the man seated atop the box.
