Chapter 5
“Your Grace!”
James Montague did not slow.
London had a way of smelling like damp stone and coal smoke, as though the city itself exhaled its exhaustion into the streets. The paving beneath his boots was slick with the residue of the morning’s dew. Spring was upon them.
“Your Grace,” the voice insisted, closer now, “surely you will not pretend you did not hear me.”
James stopped because refusing to acknowledge a persistent nuisance in public only turned it into entertainment.
He turned.
A carriage had drawn to the curb in a showy sort of way, as though it believed itself important enough to halt traffic.
The woman descending from it wore sable at her throat and diamonds at her ears, and she held herself with that peculiar confidence women gained when they had survived enough Seasons to believe themselves untouchable.
Lady Whitcombe. The Dowager Countess of Whitcombe.
James had not seen her in years. He would have been content never to see her again.
“Lady Whitcombe,” he said, tone neutral.
She gave a shallow curtsy, one that acknowledged his rank without conceding much humility. “It has been far too long.”
“Indeed.”
Her lips tightened. “I see grief has not improved your manners.”
James’s gaze swept past her to the driver still holding the reins, to the footman hovering behind her with the anxious look of a man who knew he was about to witness something unpleasant. Then he returned his attention to her with deliberate calm.
“My manners are precisely what they have always been,” he said. “You have simply forgotten what it is to be spoken to without flattery.”
Lady Whitcombe’s eyes flashed. “How very much like your father.”
James’s expression did not change, though something sharp moved in his chest.
“My mother,” he said evenly, “was a woman of restraint.”
Lady Whitcombe smiled faintly, as if he had made her point for her. “She was my friend.”
“So you have claimed,” James replied.
Her chin lifted. “I do not claim it. It is fact.”
“And yet,” James said, “friendship does not extend by inheritance.”
The smile slid from her face.
“You are walking,” Lady Whitcombe remarked, as if that itself were scandalous. “Does the Duke of Langford no longer own carriages?”
“I am capable of putting one foot in front of the other. As, apparently, are you.”
She made a small, dismissive sound. “Capable, yes. But why would you? You are drawing attention.”
James looked past her again, taking in the street. Heads had turned. A pair of young ladies on the opposite side pretended not to stare while their mama stared openly. Two gentlemen paused near a shop window, interest brightening their faces as if they had been gifted a free performance.
Attention, James thought, was inevitable.
“I do not mind attention,” he said.
“Ah,” Lady Whitcombe murmured. “Perhaps that is why you have chosen to marry so suddenly. A new tactic.”
James’s gaze sharpened. “Say what you mean.”
Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “The ton is buzzing, Your Grace. One cannot take tea without hearing it repeated. You have a betrothed. You have selected a bride. And yet–” she paused delicately, “–I do not recall seeing you court Miss Barker at all this Season… or last…”
James did not answer.
Lady Whitcombe leaned closer, voice lowering as though she were offering an intimate confidence rather than an insult. “It makes one wonder if there is a scandal involved.”
James’s patience thinned.
“Or,” she continued, “if the young lady is in some difficulty, and you are doing what your mother would have encouraged. A charitable marriage.”
Silence stretched.
James’s hands remained behind his back, his posture still. He did not indulge anger when calm served better.
“You are speaking too freely,” he said.
Lady Whitcombe’s brows arched. “Am I? Forgive me. I assumed that since I knew your mother–”
“Again, Lady Whitcombe, you were merely acquainted with my mother,” James corrected. “I’ll warn you to not pretend it made you family.”
Lady Whitcombe’s mouth tightened. “How dare you.”
James stepped closer, just enough to ensure she understood the distance between them was determined by him. “My personal decisions are not yours to dissect. Not now. Not ever.”
Her nostrils flared. “You have always been an ungrateful boy.”
James’s gaze did not waver. “And you have always mistaken your own curiosity for entitlement.”
Lady Whitcombe drew herself up. “You will regret speaking to me this way.”
James glanced at the courthouse in the distance, its stone facade rising through the winter haze. He had no time for this. No interest.
“I seriously doubt it. As it were, I am already regretting the last thirty seconds,” he said.
Lady Whitcombe looked scandalized. “Your Grace–”
James turned away.
Behind him, her voice rose. “You cannot simply walk away when I am–”
He did not stop.
“–when I am speaking to you!”
James turned back once more, fully facing her, his expression carved from patience and warning. Lady Whitcombe’s features tightened when she met his gaze, as though she had suddenly remembered stories best left untested.
“Write me the rest of your incessant nagging,” he said. “I am tiring of this quickly, and I have an appointment.”
Lady Whitcombe’s face flushed a furious red. “How–how–”
James turned around and resumed walking, leaving her mid-retort once again as though she were nothing more than another voice in London, loud and irrelevant.
The street swallowed him again, the noise and movement smoothing over the disturbance.
He did not dwell on it.
He did not read meaning into the mothers and daughters who turned too quickly when he passed, or the whispers that trailed behind him like smoke. They could speculate until their tongues wore out.
He had no intention of living his life according to the ton’s appetite.
He had an objective.
The Doctors’ Commons waited. And if London watched him go, hungry for a story, it would have to starve.
By the time he reached the quiet, sleepy-headed quadrangle of red-brick buildings, his thoughts had already returned to what mattered.
A marriage license.
A signature.
A wife who would serve as a shield while he continued his work unseen.
James avoided the noisy probate courts and headed for the Registry of the Vicar-General. He entered the building without hesitation.
“You understand,” the Proctor said, dipping his quill once more, “that once this is filed, there is no altering it without considerable inconvenience, Your Grace.”
James did not look down at the parchment, but placed the two pounds on the desk. He had read every line the first time it was placed in front of him.
“And you swear there are no impediments to this marriage?”
James looked at the Proctor impatiently. He found himself annoyed by the way the candle on the desk guttered, as though it were doing so on purpose. “I do swear it, Mr. Spenlow.”
The Proctor answered with silent satisfaction and slid the page forward with the reverence that men always displayed when handling a duke’s affairs directly. “Your signature, Your Grace.”
James signed with a steady hand.
The Proctor sprinkled sand and blotted before he pressed the tax seal into the parchment and then laid the ecclesiastical seal with a ribbon.
James watched not too patiently as the Proctor then pressed the paper into a leather-bound folder as if it were something fragile. “Very well. The license is complete. It is now your legal authority to wed at All Saints’ Parish Church at the appointed time.”
James accepted the document, slipped it into his inner pocket, and stood.
The Proctor rose with him, bowing as he did. “Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage, Your Grace.”
James paused just long enough to offer a perfunctory nod.
Then he left.
Outside, the light was sharper. The air held the bite of winter and the haze of smoke. James descended the building’s steps, his mind already moving ahead of the next required actions.
The Baron’s updates had been punctual. Too punctual. Lord St. George wrote as though each detail were a currency he meant to spend.
The modiste is engaged. The vicar has been spoken to. The guest list is being prepared. My daughter is… agreeable.
Agreeable. James had almost laughed.
Miss Eleanor Barker was many things, but he doubted agreeable was among them.
A carriage rolled past, its occupants hidden behind frosted glass. A boy darted between wheels, shouting news no one listened to. James turned toward St. George Manor without hesitation, taking the most direct route.
It was not far. Lord St. George’s residence lay within easy reach of the ton, close enough to be considered respectable, far enough to keep the truly important families from being inconvenienced by proximity.
As he walked, the city watched him.
A mother tugged her daughter closer when he passed, as though a duke were contagious. A gentleman tipped his hat. A pair of ladies whispered behind gloved hands, their eyes bright with the thrill of new information.
James ignored them all.
He had not spent the last twenty years honing his focus only to be distracted by gossip.
He reached St. George Manor within the hour.
Graham admitted him immediately, eyes wide, shoulders too rigid. “Your Grace.”
“Lord St. George,” James said, handing over his gloves.
“Yes, Your Grace. He is expecting you.”
Of course he was.
Lord St. George met him in the front hall, flushed and overly eager, as though he had been standing there waiting for the sound of James’s footsteps.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “This is an honor.”
James inclined his head. “I have secured the license. All Saints’ in three days’ time. Our appointment is set.”
Lord St. George’s face transformed. “Excellent. Excellent, the girls are just in the drawing room,” he said with forced cheer. “But before we continue, Your Grace, there is a matter of the dowry.”
“I do not care to discuss it, St. George,” James said sharply.