Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
“The principle on which to lead an army is to establish a standard of courage that all must achieve.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
JULY 23, 1821
Richard’s voice was still ringing in his ears as Brendan’s carriage came to a halt in front of the Abbotts’ home. Through the window, he noticed Lady Slight’s townhouse across the street.
Miss Abbott’s strange decision made a little more sense now that he could see it was her home where he had disembarked several nights earlier. Practically a stone’s throw apart.
A footman opened the door, lowering the steps for him.
Brendan descended and then peered up at the modest home of Viscount Moreland.
Three bays wide and three stories high, there was no ostentatious display despite the family’s wealth.
The painted shutters were faded from exposure, and the brass knocker bore the patina of age—pride without pomp.
Brendan knew Lady Saunton, the viscount’s niece, had boasted a large dowry that had led to all her troubles the year before.
The earl had saved her from a dire situation unbeknownst to the Abbotts and had nearly been killed for interceding.
Which reminded him of Richard’s agitated admonitions earlier this morning.
Butterflies set flight in his stomach as Brendan once again thought about his looming proposal.
His lack of sleep, and the shock of the baron’s death followed by his near arrest, had his head aching.
There were moments when he felt entirely disoriented, as though London had tilted on its axis.
The tightness in his chest had not eased since the runner had informed him of his imminent arrest the day before.
Now he was to offer for a young girl he did not know.
Brendan had always promised himself that he would never allow the baron to trap him in an unwanted marriage.
When he had learned the truth about his parentage and realized that his mother had married Josiah Ridley out of necessity, to save Brendan from bastardy, he had vowed never to find himself in similar circumstances.
His mother had been beauty and grace, and she had deserved better than her marriage to his uncle-father. A compromise for the sake of survival.
Brendan had resolved to one day marry a woman of his own choosing, one he would cherish.
Somehow, he would recognize her when he met her, feel it in the marrow of his bones that she was his match.
She would make him forget the parade of widows who had warmed his lonely hours and remind him what it was to be cherished unconditionally, in the way his mother had loved him before her untimely death more than ten years earlier.
Yet here he stood, poised to enter the Abbott household and make an offer for a young chit whom he barely knew. A child.
Brendan did not want to be a man who uttered vows only to stray, as so many in the ton did without remorse. But how was he to make a life with a veritable stranger who was barely out of the schoolroom? The idea twisted in his chest, an ache blooming behind his sternum.
It was his worst nightmare come to life.
He had evaded the baron’s influence for years, weaving through traps and expectations, determined to shape his own destiny.
The old man would have been ecstatic to learn that Brendan was to marry the daughter of a wealthy and powerful viscount—a step above the two of them in rank.
It was galling to contemplate Josiah Ridley’s glee had he been present to witness Brendan’s descent into propriety and unwelcome ascent in social status.
Several days had passed since he had found the baron sprawled on the study floor, and he had not slept properly since.
His temples throbbed with the weight of too many sleepless nights, and his eyes were gritty with exhaustion.
His chest remained tight, as though the path ahead had narrowed to a fate he had not chosen.
Bracing himself, he donned his beaver and approached the door, lifting the brass ring with a resolve he did not feel, bringing it down in a decisive knock that echoed on the modest portico.
A tall footman answered, his powdered wig pristine, his livery precise. He accepted Brendan’s card with practiced indifference, but upon peering down at the name, his polite expression receded.
“Mr. Ridley.”
It was a statement, not a question, and there was no mistaking the hard look the servant threw at him.
Brendan had always made a point of getting along with servants.
His mother had taught him that kindness was a gentleman’s duty, not a choice.
But this one was not receptive to the friendly smile Brendan attempted.
The staff here were clearly loyal to the household, and it seemed word of Miss Abbott’s entanglement with him had made its way belowstairs.
“I will see if Lord Moreland will receive you.”
Brendan winced at the servant’s clipped tone. Clearly, the man felt no concern that Brendan might lodge a complaint. He cast a scathing glance over his shoulder as he strode away, spine stiff with disapproval.
When Brendan was finally shown into the viscount’s study, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.
The room exuded quiet wealth. No gilding or ostentation, yet the lines of the furniture were unmistakably Chippendale, each piece balanced in harmony with the dark, polished wood panels cladding the walls.
The space spoke of old money and meticulous taste.
Lord Moreland rose from behind his mahogany desk, a figure of solemn authority. He gestured for Brendan to take a seat.
“I confess I am relieved you are here, Ridley. My daughter has taken an extraordinary risk to secure your freedom, and I hope you appreciate her sacrifice.”
Brendan nodded. “I am here to discuss terms of marriage.”
The older man’s brow furrowed. “Marriage? Lily must accept your offer before we can discuss terms.”
The throbbing in Brendan’s temples had reached a fever pitch, and it took him a few moments to fully comprehend the viscount’s words. “Surely she has no choice, given the circumstances?”
Moreland was a tall man with broad shoulders, dressed in conservative but clearly expensive clothing. His square face bore the sort of calm bred from long-standing authority. But at Brendan’s question, his countenance hardened.
“I appreciate you are here and that you are taking steps to correct this situation. However, let me be plain. My daughter has acted with uncommon courage on your behalf, and she has the unwavering support of our entire family. Whether she proceeds with a wedding is entirely her decision.”
Brendan raised a hand, pressing his fingertips against his right temple in a vain attempt to ease the pounding ache. As if it were not difficult enough to consider binding himself to a stranger, now he must also contend with a doting father and a household sure to watch his every move.
Perfect. Not only a bride he had never desired, but an interfering family to accompany her.
This was, without question, the worst week of his life.
Worse even than the week his mother had died, leaving him and Annabel to the cold charity of the baron’s household.
In the span of days, he had been accused of murder, narrowly escaped arrest, and was now being ushered into a marriage not of his choosing, with an idolizing family ready to pounce at the first misstep.
“Do I have your permission to speak with her, then?”
“I am in the process of making inquiries into your past, Ridley,” the viscount replied with unflinching directness, “and I must confess that what I have learned does not inspire confidence. Your history with your father does not reflect a strong regard for familial duty.”
Brendan’s breath caught. He forced himself to remain still, to rein in the tide of frustration that rose within him. “That was the baron’s choice, my lord. He sent me to London and bade me never return to Somerset.”
Lord Moreland’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of understanding softening the hard lines of his mouth. “Your father is the cause of the estrangement?”
Father. Huh.
“Yes, my lord.”
“That is something, I suppose.” The viscount leaned back slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. “However, any man who maintains an acquaintance with the widow Slight is bound to attract scrutiny. It is not the conduct one expects from a man of serious intention.”
Brendan gritted his teeth as the throbbing in his temples ratcheted up.
The irony of defending his right to marry a girl he scarcely knew was not lost on him.
He searched for an answer that might satisfy a man so clearly invested in virtue.
Many fathers of the ton would have cared little about such things, as the late baron had made abundantly clear when Brendan’s sister had once found her betrothed embracing another woman.
But Lord Moreland, it seemed, possessed firmer convictions on the subject of fidelity.
“The actions of an unwed gentleman, I assure you. I have no intention of continuing any acquaintance with Lady Slight if—when—I am wed.”
He caught the misstep even as the words left his mouth, but Moreland’s narrowed gaze confirmed it had not gone unnoticed.
Brendan pressed his lips together. The truth, if he admitted it to himself, was more complicated.
Part of him wished he could see Harriet again.
She had offered him comfort once—an escape, of sorts.
Had she heard of his predicament? Perhaps not.
Perhaps, had she known, she might have stepped forward. Unlikely, but maybe.
Moreland stood. “It does not signify. Lily is aware of your prior connection, and the choice is hers. If she chooses to proceed, so be it. I trust my daughter’s judgment, and since she has taken such extraordinary steps on your behalf, I will permit you to speak with her to come to terms. Thomas will show you to the drawing room. ”