Katharine Ashe - How a Lady Weds a Rogue

“Of course.”

“If you speak a word about that vainglorious quiz in my house, I will be obliged to make you sleep in the coal scuttle.”

Diantha could not help but smile. “Vainglorious? He wears black coats, and I have only once seen him in a colored waistcoat.”

“Alas, the coal scuttle it will be for you.” They ascended the stair. “I admit to being disappointed, as I had gotten used to thinking you somewhat sensible. But some ladies, I understand, will lodge their affections in the most astounding quarters.”

Upon returning home in the morning, Diantha had no desire to hear more of her brother’s chastisements; his letter the previous night had been full of them and he indicated he would call upon her early. Instead she requested the company of a footman and walked to Teresa’s house.

“Have you seen Lord Eads again since the ball, T?”

“No.” Teresa drew silk thread through a square of linen, her movements precise. “But when I do, I shall do what I must to make him marry me.”

Diantha doubted Lord Eads would return to society. He had only been at the ball because of Wyn. She stared dully at the rainy day, then took a breath and turned back to her friend.

“I called this morning, T, because I have something I must tell you.”

Teresa set down her work. “I knew it the moment you entered. Something is amiss.” She moved to the sofa beside Diantha.

“I love a gentleman. Mr. Yale. Perhaps you saw him at the ball, so gorgeously elegant except when I have caused him not to be. But even then—tousled, fevered, unshaven, even furious—he is perfect.”

“Furious?” Teresa’s eyes were wide. “Unshaven?” Her pretty red lips gaped. “Diantha!”

“He has compromised me and believes he must now marry me. But I am ruining his life and cannot accept him because I want what is best for him. That is what love should be, and I wish to love like that now.”

“I . . . I . . .” Teresa surrounded Diantha’s hands warmly. “I daresay.”

They sat like that for a moment while Teresa leaned into her shoulder in comfort. Finally she said, “Di, could you perhaps explain that part about him compromising you?”

Diantha laughed, and it felt wretched. “He was my last willful transgression. I must now cease behaving recklessly and instead be a lady of whom my family can be proud.”

“Don’t you think they would be proud if you married a fine gentleman like Mr. Yale, especially given that . . .”

“Given that I gave my maidenhood to him? No. Tracy has forbidden me to marry him. In any case, it doesn’t matter that I am ruined.”

“You always said it wouldn’t matter,” Teresa said very quietly.

“T, could you try to be happy for me, at least for turning over a new leaf?”

Teresa sighed. “I rather liked the old you. This new Diantha may not be to my tastes.” She squeezed her hand. “But I daresay I will love you no matter how tiresomely proper you become.” She stroked the back of Diantha’s hand. “You know, Mr. Yale is likely to be unhappy with your decision not to allow him to be honorable to you. He is bound to call on you.”

“That is the trouble. He is bound to.” She stared at her hands. “I mustn’t be at home when he calls.”

“He may call again until he sees you.”

“Then I must leave London.” Diantha stood, within her heart new purpose seeking to push aside the heavy grief. “I will make a new plan.”

“A new plan? Oh, no, Di—”

“You are brilliant, T.” She squeezed her friend’s hands. “This plan will take me far from London and if he calls on me and tries to convince me to marry him again, I will not be here to succumb.”

“This sounds like a remarkably bad plan to me.”

Diantha gripped her teeth together, pasted on a smile, and went to the door. “Will you help me pack? I will have a lot to do to prepare. John, the footman, will help me find the closest Mail Coach inn, I’ve no doubt. He is the sweetest man. And I will ask Cook to prepare a picnic lunch. She is always so kind.” She reached for the doorknob. “I should write a letter to Serena explaining that she needn’t worry about me. And I must—”

Teresa bolted up from the sofa. “Diantha, you cannot go!”

Diantha swiveled around. “You must help me, T.” Her voice shook. “I cannot bear to be a burden on him again, to allow him to be hurt because of me. If I stay, I know I will. I always do.”

Teresa’s lower lip quivered, her eyes entreating. But she nodded. Diantha drew open the door, then paused.

“And . . . T?”

“Di?” The single syllable was thick.

“It will have to be Mr. H for me after all.”

“Oh!” She sprang forward and wrapped her arms around Diantha and held her close.

Raven,

When the trial of the Queen’s alleged infidelity comes to a close shortly (in failure of the proposed bill, as all hope it will), she intends to remove from England. She has discreetly inquired as to whom she can depend upon to protect her from the King if he seeks to harm her further in this manner. Since you charmed the Ministers in Vienna, you have remained in their thoughts; those loyal to her recommend you. The King discovered this and—desiring you to remain in his service rather than hers—wishes to reward you for your long tenure in the Club. Our director recommends knighthood.

Congratulations, Sir Raven. Do join me for dinner this evening at the club.

Peregrine

Yale,

The duke is dead, suffocation in his bed by the old servant woman.

D.E.

Shuffling into his drawing room with the weary tread of a much older man, the Baron of Carlyle peered at Wyn’s calling card. “To what do I owe this visit, sir?”

Wyn bowed. “I regret that it is not a social call, my lord.”

Carlyle looked more carefully at him now. “You wrote me a letter offering for my daughter. Now I recall.” He nodded. “Excellent property, yours. Enviable income. But as I replied, where I wish Diantha to marry has no bearing on where she will actually do so, much to my regret, but there it is. I’m afraid I cannot help you convince her. She has a mind of her own, as do all my daughters.” He shook his head with a regretful air.

“I am not here to ask assistance in convincing your daughter to accept my suit, my lord.” He was more than happy to accomplish that task himself. Given time, and encouragement that left her begging and breathless, she would have him. And if Tracy Lucas even so much as peeped in protest, Wyn would favor him with a meaningful stare down the barrel of his pistol. He was through doing the bidding of other men. His future, and Diantha’s, was his alone to command.

The baron shook his head. “Don’t break your heart over her, Mr. Yale. For all she looks very pretty in a ball gown now, my fourth daughter is still a rambunctious girl. A spruced up fellow like you will be much better off with a wife who knows how to go about like a lady.”

“Thank you for that advice, sir.” He couldn’t disagree more. Diantha it was and Diantha it would be forever for him. She rendered the mere idea of control laughable, and he wanted that. He didn’t want her subdued, her spirit cowed as when he left her at Lady Emily’s. He wanted her plunging into danger head first, making him shout and rescue her and make love to her in stables as often as possible. He’d been a fool to push her away and an even greater fool in his anger and fear for her not to have told her the entire truth last night. He would not make that mistake again. “I have come to speak with you on another matter. Your wife.”

Carlyle’s brow pleated.

“Lady Carlyle has been in London and has contacted your stepson. She requested of him funds to finance a high-end brothel.”

The baron’s face went ashen. “In London?”

“France. It gives me no pleasure to bring you these tidings, my lord. But for your stepdaughter’s sake, I thought you should know.”

Carlyle passed a distracted hand over his face then moved to the sideboard. “Claret, Mr. Yale?”

“No, thank you. I must be going.” To find a lady with lapis eyes and make her the most convincing offer of marriage a man could manage. Only the smallest sliver of doubt bothered him. “But first, my lord, might you share with me a word about Mr. Highbottom? I understand that he has hopes for Miss Lucas’s hand.”

“Who?” Carlyle’s brow twisted.

“Mr. Hinkle Highbottom.”

“Hinkle and Highbottom? What hopes would they have concerning my daughter’s marriage?”

“They?”

“Alfred Hinkle and Oswald Highbottom.” Carlyle moved to a table laden with books and took up a pair of thick volumes. “Two of the finest archeological minds this century, although I don’t suppose young fellows like you bother with such things.”

Wyn’s heart beat unevenly. “If you will, my lord, is this Mr. Highbottom—”

“Professor Highbottom. Master at Christ Church for over forty years now.”

Wyn could not help but stare rather blankly. “Is Miss Lucas acquainted with the professor?”

“Since she was a sprig of a girl. Highbottom was dedicated to his scholarship. Never had a family of his own, of course. But he took a quick liking to Diantha when she first came to live at Glenhaven Hall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Used to dandle her on his knee until rheumatism got the best of him.”

“Then, Professor Highbottom has no claim upon your daughter’s hand, nor she an interest in wedding him?”

“I said I don’t have control over whom my daughter chooses to wed.” Carlyle frowned. “But if she were to betroth herself to a man sixty years her senior I would make it my business to halt the alliance at once. Now, sir, I haven’t any idea how—”