Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
“Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
JULY 25, 1821
Lily examined herself in the mirror. Soon she was to take her vows, yet her critical eye insisted that she still possessed the air of a child.
The flouncy gown she wore, though finely made, did little to lend her the dignity or poise of a woman about to be wed.
It certainly would not cause any gentleman’s pulse to quicken, least of all her intended.
Not that she desired to appear wanton or garish, but still …
did she look like someone worthy of longing?
Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the widow.
That lady was always so composed in her bold silk gowns, commanding attention with her daring neckline and confident manner.
Lily’s own figure was modest in comparison, her gown innocent and pale, her demeanor demure.
She felt painfully invisible in contrast.
A sigh escaped her lips as she stepped back and leaned lightly against the carved foot of her tall bedstead, the cool wood grounding her.
This would not do. She could not walk down the aisle appearing no more than a schoolroom miss.
She wanted to be seen as a woman. To inspire admiration, yes, but more than that, to be truly noticed by Mr. Ridley.
For him to look at her and feel something stir that went beyond friendship.
That warm gleam in his eyes, could she ever rouse it?
Sophia and the duchess were effortlessly elegant.
Each wore colors that seemed chosen by the heavens themselves.
The duchess, with her rich chestnut hair and eyes the color of aged brandy, always looked perfectly adorned.
Sophia, her stormy blue eyes offset by her reddish-gold locks, selected gowns with a confidence that Lily deeply admired and she suspected that the rich tones her mother wore would suit her far better than these pale pastels.
Most brides simply wore an existing gown. It was sensible, traditional. But Lily did not feel sensible just now. She felt … determined.
“Bah! I need a new gown for my wedding.”
“I agree,” Sophia said, stepping beside her. “And I know just where to get one.”
“What do I say to Mama?”
“You say you are a grown woman who requires a wardrobe fit for matrimony and that you will not take no for an answer.”
“And then?”
“Then we hike up our skirts and make a dash for the front door, where my carriage is waiting, before your mother can descend and scold us into submission.”
“We should call to her from across the hall,” Lily said with a wry smile, “so we gain a bit of a lead.”
“I think we wait at the foot of the stairs,” Sophia replied with equal mischief. “Then, as soon as she appears at the top, we inform her where we are going. That will give us more of a head start.”
Lily nodded slowly. “We must go to a proper modiste. Mama’s mantua-maker fashions gowns for matrons.
I need something more … compelling. Mr. Ridley is a fine-looking man, and I do not wish to appear lacking in comparison.
It must seem, especially to Society, that what passed between us sprang from deep feeling, not mere circumstance. ”
“I made an appointment with Signora Ricci for this morning,” Sophia replied with a knowing smile.
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew. No self-respecting woman permits her mother to select her wedding gown, not when she is to marry a man who should see her in her best light.” She bobbed her head subtly toward Lily’s bodice.
Lily looked down. Her gown was embellished with tiny bows across the front, a detail that had once seemed charming but now felt juvenile.
She resembled nothing so much as a Twelfth Night cake, the kind confectioners displayed in their windows, adorned with sugared roses and fondant flourishes.
Decorative. Delightful. But not desirable.
She wanted to be more than a cheerful display. She wished to be seen—by him. She wanted Mr. Ridley’s heart to stir when he looked at her, to feel fortunate in his choice of bride. Not to glance back at what had once been.
“There is not much time,” she murmured. “Papa insists we wed swiftly to still the gossip. Mr. Ridley has already applied for a Common License.”
“Signora Ricci will manage. She is a miracle worker. Now that your wedding is set, we must ensure Mr. Ridley sees you for what you are—a woman worthy of admiration and devotion. You deserve far more than polite companionship.”
Lily drew in a slow breath, then released it, her fingers tightening at her sides. “Mama will descend shortly. We should position ourselves if we mean to catch her on the steps.”
Sophia’s eyes lit with mischief. “I do so enjoy a good caper!”
As they turned toward the door, Lily paused. The question that had been gnawing at her could not be silenced.
“How bad is it?” Her voice was soft, laced with uncertainty.
Sophia’s smile faded. She glanced away for a moment, then back. “The gossip?”
Lily gave a small nod.
Sophia hesitated only a beat. “Let us say … it is very fortunate that your wedding is near.”
“You need to apply to the Home Secretary for a writ of summons.”
The duke’s announcement halted Brendan mid-stride.
He had secured Miss Abbott’s agreement to marry, thus easing the burden on his conscience.
Now his thoughts were consumed with ensuring her safety once she entered his household.
Briggs was to brief him later that day regarding the servants’ interviews.
Thus far, no one had burst into the library bearing grim news, which at least suggested that if the Bow Street Runner had uncovered anything, it was not urgent enough to herald his immediate demise.
“For what?” Brendan’s tone was not defensive, merely bewildered. He could not imagine what Halmesbury was referring to.
“To take your seat in the House of Lords.” The duke’s tone was pragmatic, his gray eyes trained steadily on Brendan, who blinked at him, trying to comprehend the significance of the statement.
“I do not think this is the time for politics!”
Richard, standing at the window, gave a derisive snort. “Dunderhead! This is not about politics. At this moment, hundreds of tenants and servants are without a landlord. Thousands of constituents lack representation. There is more at stake than your own affairs.”
He stepped forward, his expression stern.
“You are a peer now … or will be once the Committee for Privileges confirms your succession. You must authorize funds, sign documents, manage households and lands. Even your own household’s operations are affected.
Or do you imagine that your late … benefactor …
arranged for the coffers to open from beyond the grave? ”
The pressure at his temples pulsed with a dull insistence. Brendan slumped into an ancient damask-covered sofa, its cushions long past their prime, and cast his gaze upward to the faded crown moldings that framed the ceiling. Once cream, they had darkened with age.
“Lawks! We only just buried the baron.”
Across from him, the duke’s lips pinched into a taut line. He began to drum his long fingers —slow, deliberate—against the worn mahogany arm of his chair.
“Annabel wished to attend, but …”
“But women do not attend funerals,” Brendan supplied, voice heavy.
Halmesbury nodded once. And in that pause, Brendan realized how selfishly inward he had turned.
The strain upon his brother-in-law had barely registered amid the chaos of his own thoughts.
He looked again at the duke’s face and saw the exhaustion etched around his eyes, faint shadows betraying sleepless nights, a weight carried quietly.
“I told her I did not care about convention,” Halmesbury said at last, his voice low.
“She should attend if she wished. But she woke this morning unwell. The tension of the past days has done her no good, and she is well along now. She chose rest over the condemnation of men who would stare and judge. I wished her to have an opportunity to say goodbye, but she said her health and our child’s must come first.”
Guilt stirred in Brendan’s chest. He had not asked after his sister. Not once. His mind had been wholly consumed by threat, inheritance, scandal.
“I should pay her a visit,” he murmured.
Richard stepped away from the window, his boots whispering against the polished floorboards, and settled into a nearby chair. “Perhaps we might dine together. Talk a little. Perhaps reminisce about the baron. It might allow her to close this chapter.”
Halmesbury tilted his head slightly, considering. “I would like that. The five of us, then? You and the countess, Brendan, and ourselves?”
Richard nodded. “Yes. I shall cancel our other plans.”
“I appreciate it. A quiet supper among family … more fitting than the posturing dandies the baron kept company with.” Brendan’s fingers traced the embroidery of the sofa arm. “We can speak of old anecdotes. Give her chance to air her memories.”
“Sophia will be glad to assist the duchess,” the earl replied, his tone soft.
Brendan closed his eyes. The filtered light through the mullioned windows pressed too sharply against his temples. Everything ached with new gravity.
A few short days ago, he had been a carefree heir, drinking in the laughter of Town, dancing through life with no thought for consequence. Now, he was a man weighted with responsibility. Not just a wife. An estate. Lives dependent upon his steadiness. Tenants. Servants. The people of his district.
He had never been tutored for this. His estrangement from the baron meant he had learned nothing of stewardship. The steward was a name, the solicitors mere acquaintances.
He rubbed his brow, voice low. “Let us not forget, we have a murder yet unsolved.”
Halmesbury exhaled heavily, the sound weighted with fatigue. “Thunder an’ turf! This is a grim week.”
Richard leaned back in his chair, fingers tugging absently at the folds of his cravat. The motion was agitated, though his voice remained dry. “Which part? The grotesque crime, the unexpected death in the family, the averted arrest, or the betrothal born of scandal?”
Brendan let out a disbelieving laugh, short and incredulous. “All of it. Every last bit of it.”
The silence that followed was companionable, each man seated with his own disquiet, the room echoing faintly with the creak of ancient floorboards and the distant tick of a longcase clock.
At length, the duke spoke. “I would advise you to remain vigilant. Take precautions. Until the matter is resolved, you are still very much a target.”
Brendan nodded slowly, fingers splayed against his knee, then pressed together as if in prayer. “I am. But the thought of bringing a bride into this chaos … it weighs heavily.”
“There is no avoiding it,” Halmesbury replied. “The so-called tryst between a diabolical seducer and a highborn debutante is all that is being talked about. I have spread word of your impending nuptials far and wide. The sooner it becomes fact, the sooner the outrage fades.”
Brendan gave a low, strangled sound and leaned back, thudding his head lightly against the chair’s curved backrest. “I feel as if I am attempting to douse house fires using a mere teaspoon.”
Richard gave a humorless chuckle, eyes glinting. “It will pass. Just see the wedding through. Once that has occurred, Society will find something else to wag their tongues about. Some new travesty of judgment to replace yours.”