He thought first about masquerading as a servant, but quickly changed his mind. He preferred to at least pose as a member of the gentry, albeit a lesser member. Besides, he doubted his ability to play the part of a servant convincingly enough, particularly for any length of time. There had to be some sort of position he could occupy in Sedgewick’s household, some minor, but realistic, role he could perform that would not cause undue notice.

He could not say what finally caused him to stumble upon the notion of posing as a curate, but it seemed a realistic enough disguise. No one would question a curate coming to visit his close friend, the vicar. And a curate was low enough on the social ladder that his entrance into Stonehurst society would cause barely a ripple. That is, if he traveled, dressed, and acted as a curate would. Which meant leaving Jenkins and his freshly laundered cravats behind.

“I have changed my mind, Jenkins. I will pack a small bag myself. And you are to remain here in London.”

Wesleigh had the satisfaction of seeing his valet’s perpetually expressionless face assume a look of dismay. “But, my lord—”

“I shall be taking the stage to Stonehurst, and I doubt there would be room for the other passengers were I to take such an impressive array of baggage.”

“The stage, my lord? Do I understand you properly? You cannot mean that you, the heir to the duke of Alford, are taking the common stage from London to Stonehurst.”

“Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I need you to see about securing my passage. I would prefer the boxseat, but any outside seat will do, I suppose. It would be criminal to have to be shut inside on a day like today.” Wesleigh turned to search for his plainest jacket, preferably one a few seasons old as well, before realizing that his valet still stood rooted in place, his mouth hanging open. “Jenkins, I haven’t a lot of time to spare. I am hoping to make Stonehurst by nightfall.” Turning back to his wardrobe, he pulled out an old, badly cut jacket he’d never worn. “Ah, this should do nicely,” he said to himself. As he removed the jacket he was wearing, a sartorial masterpiece of Weston’s, Jenkins shuddered violently, and left to do his master’s bidding.

The Smithfield ladies and, indeed, every inhabitant of Smithfield House, were on pins and needles awaiting the arrival of Lord Wesleigh. Even though Lady Smithfield had stuck to her promise of keeping silent about the match, the servants, who invariably came to know of any circumstance in their mistresses’ lives, had somehow succeeded in ferreting out this secret as well.