Over the breakfast table, the dowager baroness cleared her throat and announced, “I found a waistcoat in the drawing room this morning. Would anyone like to tell me how it happened to be there?”
Anthony choked on a bite of toast, casting a horrified glance at Charity from across the table. Her eyes widened, her tea cup tipping precariously in her hands. She gave a slight but firm shake of her head, and beneath the table, she aimed a kick at his shin. A warning, he thought, to keep his silence.
Mercy speared a chiding glance at her sister, and then gave a massive sigh and a roll of her eyes.
“It’s mine,” she said, in a dry tone of voice.
“Yours?” The dowager baroness asked, with an arch of her brows.
“I wasn’t aware you wore waistcoats, my dear.”
“Well, not mine,” Mercy said.
“It’s Thomas’, of course.” She nudged her husband’s shoulder with her own once, and then harder again when the first nudge had failed to pull his attention from the pages of his paper.
“What?” he asked finally, adjusting his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose.
“Your waistcoat,” Mercy prompted in an insistent voice.
A blank stare. Clearly the poor man hadn’t a clue as to the nature of the conversation passing about the table around him. But his wife had been expecting some sort of confirmation in his own voice, and he did his best not to disappoint her.
“Oh, yes, of course. My waistcoat. Certainly. What about it?”
“I found it in the drawing room,” the dowager baroness repeated.
“The drawing room?” Thomas echoed, perplexed.
“What the devil was it doing there?”
Mercy gave a thin-lipped smile, speaking tightly through the clench of her teeth.
“I was, of course, attempting to mend it. I must have found myself distracted and forgotten about it.”
“Mend it?” Thomas asked.
“What was wrong with it, then?”
“I, ah—well—”
“There did seem to be a button or two missing,” the dowager baroness supplied.
“Yes!” Mercy slapped her hand upon the breakfast table in abject relief.
“The buttons. Naturally, the buttons.”
And Charity snorted. Just once, softly above the rim of her tea cup, but it was enough to earn her a glare from her sister, a glance of utter confusion from Thomas, and rank suspicion from most of the other occupants of the breakfast table.
The dowager baroness’ gaze flitted between them; he and Charity. She had retired last evening well before he had at last arrived, and thus their first meeting had been at the breakfast table this morning. Now, it seemed, it had occurred to her at last that no reason had been given for his sudden appearance. And perhaps that Charity, who had—as Mercy had claimed—been moping inconsolably for the last day was no longer quite so glum as she had been.
“Oh,” she said, and a flush of color washed into her cheeks. “Oh.”
“What?” From across the table, Juliet—Thomas’ younger sister, a lovely girl of perhaps twenty years—popped her head up.
“Mama, what is it?”
“Never you mind, my dear,” the dowager baroness said firmly. In an attempt to turn the conversation, she directed her gaze to Anthony and asked, perhaps too brightly, “And will you be spending Christmas with us, Your Grace?”
“I—well, I hadn’t considered it,” he said.
“I really ought to spend it at home. With my family.”
Beneath the table, Anthony heard a soft thump, and Mercy jerked in her chair. She darted a look at Charity, who Anthony surmised had kicked her beneath the table.
“Oh, well, then you must invite them down to stay,” Mercy said.
“There is nothing quite like Christmas in the countryside. And we have got the room. I’m certain we could accommodate them.”
“It wouldn’t be proper,” Anthony said, with a resigned sigh.
“We are still in mourning.”
“Then certainly you must invite them,” the dowager baroness said.
“The lovely thing about the countryside is that there is no one about to cast judgment. And I think—when one’s grief is at its worst, that is when it is most important to find whatever joy one may.” She reached for the teapot to pour herself a fresh cup.
“There is a kind of performance,” she said, “in the rituals of mourning society expects us to observe. But grief is such a personal thing, and it has no schedule. It takes a different form for everyone. It cannot be measured in shades of black, or in time spent in seclusion. Nor does it stop existing when we are allowed at last to put off our mourning attire.”
No, he supposed it didn’t. And the girls were still so young—hardly old enough to understand what death meant. But they understood the pall that had enshrouded their home, the bleakness that had settled over their lives. Only half a year had yet elapsed. When they were out of mourning in truth, would they even recall what happiness was meant to be? Or would the grief they had been expected to clothe themselves in continue to dominate their young minds?
“I have never believed,” the dowager baroness continued, “that we do half as much honor to lost loved ones in the public spectacle of grief than we do instead in a life well-lived.”
And Anthony—Anthony found that he wanted to believe that as well. What would Freddie have said at the thought of his daughters spending their Christmas in such miserable circumstances? In a quiet house devoid of laughter, robbed even of the festive trappings of the season? Garbed in black, going without so much as a few carols or a tree to trim? What would William have thought of his beloved wife spending her Christmas holed up in her room, alone? What would Father have thought of Mother spending such a dreary holiday season in London, still so deep in mourning?
They’d have thought it a damned pity. A shame; a tragedy to see the family swathed in funeral black, as if all the life had gone out of it along with them. They would have wanted the girls to have a proper Christmas. To have a proper family. To honor them with joy, not to climb into the grave alongside them.
“We have got a lovely hill just in the back of the house,” Thomas said.
“Perfect for sledding.”
Well, that clinched it.
“I’ll invite them,” he said.
“I can’t promise they’ll accept.” There was the possibility they would think it improper—or at the least, ill-advised.
“But I will invite them.”
All he could do was to send his carriage back to London with a note, and hope they chose to climb into it.
***
It had begun to snow by early afternoon, the weather ceding from the general gloom of early winter to the beginnings of a proper blanket of white. And it was unexpectedly lovely, Charity thought, to be spending time with family. With Anthony. And there would be more of it still. There were nearly three weeks left until Christmas, and perhaps they would have a few days after it before they would have to return to London once more. Where the realities of life would once more set in.
But until then, she would enjoy it, this time of perfect peace.
From her position in a chair by the drawing room window, she watched the snow come down in beautiful little flakes. Sipped her cocoa. Wondered when it might be appropriate to rouse Anthony from his doze upon the sofa—where he lay snoring softly, no doubt still recovering from the strain of the day before—to sneak off for a bit while Mercy and Thomas were engaged in putting little Flora down for a nap.
In the distance, through the falling snow that blurred the horizon, Charity watched a carriage make a turn off of the main road onto the drive leading up to the house. It couldn’t be Anthony’s family. He had sent off his carriage to make the return trip to London only an hour or so before, after a long labor over a note that would properly convey his wishes to them.
Another visitor? Poor Mercy would soon be overrun with them at this rate. The carriage proceeded up the drive, coming to a stop just outside. At last the driver, swathed in a huge brown greatcoat, jumped down to open the carriage door, and—
“Mr. Fortescue?” Charity’s brows drew together in confusion, and she rubbed at the thin film of condensation that coated the inside of the window, just in the event that it had blurred her view enough for her eyes to betray her. But it hadn’t, and they hadn’t.
“Whatever is he doing here?” And what could have brought him down from London?
Anthony dozed on, none the wiser.
Charity watched Mr. Fortescue walk through the fine layer of snow that had already accumulated upon the ground, trudging toward the door, a leather folio tucked beneath his arm. There was a rap upon the front door, and then the muffled sound of voices in the foyer.
A moment passed, and then there was a scratch upon the drawing room door just before a footman poked his head in.
“Visitor for you, Miss Nightingale. A Mr. Fortescue, come down from London.”
“I will see him,” she said, hearing the quaver of uncertainty in her voice. She rose to her feet as Mr. Fortescue entered the room, striving to keep her voice low and soft so as not to disturb Anthony.
“Mr. Fortescue,” she said.
“What an unexpected surprise.”
“Miss Nightingale,” he said, with a brief bow.
“I apologize for intruding upon your holiday.”
“It is no trouble.” However had he found her? She supposed she must have given him Mercy’s name at some point or another. Had he stopped by her residence and found her missing? Come all this way on the assumption of her presence? “But what brings you here today?”
“A contract,” he said.
“I’ve put together the preliminaries. Naturally, you will want to look it over for yourself—”
“I won’t.” She had told him as much before on several occasions. And to his credit, he had never pressed her, even if he had kept the offers on hand in the event that she ever changed her mind. She supposed this one must have been particularly generous, if it had brought him down from London to deliver it immediately and in person.
“I am not interested in reviving my career, as you know.”
His brow furrowed, and he cast a glance toward Anthony, who stirred upon the sofa at the first touch of stress in her voice.
“Miss Nightingale—”
“I am sorry you have come all this way to deliver it,” she said firmly, “but my answer is no. And so you should tell whoever has inquired.”
Somewhere behind her, Anthony smothered a yawn. She heard a stretch, and a grogginess in his voice as he said, “Charity. Hear the poor man out. He’s come all the way down from London.”
Her brows lifted at the utter lack of surprise in his voice. Almost as if—
Almost as if he had been expecting Mr. Fortescue’s arrival. Almost as if he knew precisely what had precipitated it.
“You,” she said, turning.
“You brought him down?”
“I did. I told you yesterday that I had seen a solicitor. In fact, I saw yours.” He pulled himself upright at last, boots landing upon the floor as he sat.
“You couldn’t have known I would even be here!”
“No, but I had hoped. And I was reasonably certain that even if you weren’t, your sister would have some idea of how to find you. I thought it best to be prepared for any eventuality.” Anthony paused to wipe the last dregs of sleep from his eyes and clasped his hands before him.
“Mr. Fortescue handles your contracts, does he not?”
“He handles my business matters, yes. But he knows well enough,” she said, “that I have no desire to enter into another contract. With anyone. Not even with you.”
“Charity—”
“I don’t want to bring ink and paper into this,” she said.
“I don’t want that sort of arrangement with you!” The sort that had a time limit, determined by a year, perhaps even two or three. The lease of a house somewhere. A parting gift somewhere down the line; another lovely bauble for her hoard.
“Charity.”
“I don’t require a patron,” she said.
“I have funds of my own, enough to see me comfortably through the rest of my life. I don’t want your financial support, or trinkets, or an account at the modiste! I only want you.” Without all the rest of those things that would turn their relationship into something transactional. Something less than they had now. She wanted the lover she had always intended to take for herself, not just another benefactor.
“Charity,” Anthony said again, with infinite patience.
“It’s not that sort of contract.”
Mr. Fortescue cleared his throat, gestured to the chair that Charity had recently vacated.
“Will you sit, Miss Nightingale?”
Charity sank into her chair as if her knees had gone out beneath her.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“I know,” Anthony said.
“I thought I had a little more time. Frankly, I did not expect that Mr. Fortescue would prove himself so incredibly efficient. I might just have to retain his services for myself, as I find my own solicitor to be somewhat less than proficient in certain regards. Mr. Fortescue, would you be so kind?”
“Ah.” Mr. Fortescue grabbed the folio out from beneath his arm, and there was the faint riffle of papers within as he pulled it open.
“Here you are,” he said as he laid it into her hands.
Charity stared down at the stack of papers before her. At the words Marriage Settlement printed neatly across the top. Her breath backed up into her throat, and she slammed the folio closed again.
“Careful,” Anthony chided.
“There’s a special license in there somewhere. Or at least there ought to be. Mr. Fortescue?”
“There is.”
“Are you mad?” Charity wheezed.
“I cannot marry you! We have only just had our marriage annulled!”
Anthony managed a half-smile.
“I am aware. The Archbishop was not pleased, I can tell you. I had to endure a solid half an hour of lecturing before he could be swayed—by Mr. Fortescue, more than myself, if I am honest—to issue a special license.”
“I simply told him,” Mr. Fortescue said, “that his refusal would result in at most a delay of a few weeks to call the banns, and that it would be in his best interests not to thwart the wishes of a duke with such an inconvenience as that. He did agree with my assessment…eventually.”
“For which I am grateful,” Anthony said to him.
“She would have balked at least twice before the last of the banns could be called.”
She was balking now.
“Anthony, this is absurd. You cannot marry me! What would your mother say?”
“That hardly matters, as I don’t intend to ask her permission.” Still he spoke to her in that soft, gentle voice. The sort of voice someone might use with a frightened child, or to—to tame a wild animal. As if he had guessed that, should he managed to persuade her to agreement, it would be against her better judgment.
And between them, hers was clearly the better.
“I can’t be a duchess,” she said.
“Why? You’re not afraid of what people might say.”
Not of her, no. But he had had his name bandied about too much just lately. In snide whispers and speculation. In insults both sly and brazen, and he had never deserved them. She did not want to be the cause of more of them.
“People may render their judgment,” he said.
“But that does not mean we must accept it. You taught me that, and I have learned it at last. I will not ask you to be my mistress, nor am I willing to sacrifice the life we might have together for one that is less than you deserve. Than I deserve. What does that leave us but marriage?”
“I won’t ever be accepted amongst the Ton,” Charity said haltingly.
“You would sacrifice any chance of that for yourself.”
“I would rather have this than the Ton,” he said, with a vague gesture that she supposed was meant to encapsulate the house and the people presently within it.
“I would rather have you, and your family, and yes—even your rather odd assortment of friends.”
Despite herself, Charity choked on a laugh.
“They are a bit odd,” she acknowledged.
“But they have been kind to me.”
“And to me. So if this is what I shall have, it is enough. More than enough. It is beyond what I had thought to hope for.”
Charity drew a shuddering breath, her hands folding over the cover of the folio laid across her lap.
“There will be no coming back from it,” she said.
“It will be too public, too salacious for your reputation ever to recover. You certainly will not be able to attain another annulment.”
“I know. The Archbishop was rather excruciatingly clear on that point. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man of God utilize such…colorful language.”
Charity swallowed a snort.
“It’s possible even a divorce would be beyond your reach.”
“I don’t expect ever to want one. Do you?”
No. No, she did not. But it had been one thing to be married and seeking an annulment, and it was quite another to get married.
“I would require certain assurances,” she said.
“Women lose much in marriage.” Often too much. More than only their names, monies, and property; they lost many legal rights as well.
“That’s what the contract is for. You have your own assets, which you have earned yourself. Without a proper contract, it would all become mine by default. I thought you would instead prefer for your assets to be placed into a trust for your sole use. With Mr. Fortescue as your trustee, if you are amenable.” He gestured to the folio.
“These are the terms which Mr. Fortescue believes would be most advantageous to you.”
Good. That was good. She had entrusted her contracts to him before, and he had earned that trust which she had placed in him by way of his fierce negotiations on her behalf.
“I suppose I could…entertain the thought,” she ventured.
“Of course, I will have to read this myself. Thoroughly.”
“I expected nothing less.”
“And possibly to revise it, if—if I have got any objections.”
Anthony grinned, and she realized that he had caught her out. She had all but given her assent already. Because revising suggested a conclusion foregone. The desire to work toward a mutually beneficial end. And that was good enough for him.
“Mr. Fortescue,” he said.
“We will not keep you. We’ll send you any revisions once they are agreed upon…and conduct the remainder of our negotiations in private.”