Page 5 of Duke with a Debt (Wicked Dukes Society #2)

CHAPTER 5

H e had to stop thinking about those bloody kisses.

About Rosamund’s lush mouth.

About the fiery way she had responded, those seductive sounds of need she’d made with his lips on hers, the way her curves had felt molded against him, beneath his hands.

But how? Ever since they had parted the day before, Stuart had been able to think of precious little else. He had gone to bed with a hard cock and had taken himself in hand to thoughts of lifting her skirts and finding the slit in her drawers, of stroking her sleek, hot cunny to see if she was wet for him. And then he had risen this morning with a prick as hard as marble. He’d had no recourse but to bring himself to release again so that he could proceed with his day sans the poison of lust running through his veins.

It hadn’t worked long. He had scarcely made it through breakfast before his mind had wandered back to her. If Rosamund’s passionate kisses were any indication, he was going to thoroughly enjoy consummating their marriage and having her in his bed.

Sighing heavily, Stuart shifted in his chair now, attempting to ease the snug fit of his trousers as a tap sounded at his study door.

“Come,” he called, grateful for the interruption.

He had been getting hard again, all over thoughts of the virginal spinster who would have once been his sister-in-law. How fucking depraved could he be?

The door opened to reveal his butler, crossing the room in measured strides.

“For Your Grace,” Fleetwood announced, delivering the salver of correspondence this morning as he always did, with the long-suffering look of a domestic who was unfailingly loyal.

Stuart thanked his butler and accepted the latest mountain of debts and other assorted missives. One of the notes bore familiar script, and his gut clenched.

Damn it , he still had time.

He addressed his butler instead, ignoring the sealed note for now. “Is Lord Wesley at home, Fleetwood?”

“His Lordship is not, Your Grace,” the butler answered stoically.

Of course he wasn’t. He was likely passed out drunk after losing more money Stuart couldn’t afford to lose all night long. Something would have to be done with him. Stuart needed to speak with Mother.

“Thank you, Fleetwood,” he said. “Has Her Grace breakfasted?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Excellent.” He nodded. “That will be all.”

The butler bowed and disappeared with the empty salver.

Mother often slept late, and Stuart could never be certain of her schedule. Which was rather ironic since she never left her apartments. It wasn’t as if she were off paying a bevy of social calls. She had not left the same four walls in years.

And that was another reason Stuart hesitated to visit her there. Her apartments had become her tomb.

Grimly, he seized the latest note from his blackmailer and tore it open, reading.

To His Grace, the Duke of Camden,

Time is waning for the five thousand pounds to be delivered to Messrs. Dolan and Rowe. A letter has been prepared for The Times in the event you forfeit your payment. It will be delivered on the first of next month by half past ten.

Damn the bastard to hell. Stuart knew precisely how much time was remaining. And the delay in his courtship of Rosamund was making it apparent that he may need to beg for his portion of the funds from the Wicked Dukes Society early if he didn’t wed soon. Without Rosamund’s dowry, it would be the only way he could afford to pay. He didn’t like having to swallow his pride, but he had to keep his blackmailer silent.

Because he couldn’t bear to allow the truth to be printed for all London to devour with greedy eyes eager for gossip and scandal. His family would not be the fodder for wagging tongues. Not if he could help it. And thus far, despite his wastrel brother’s attempts to thwart him—and despite their father’s efforts to drain the family coffers before him—Stuart had managed it.

He crumpled the latest threat and rose from his desk. Crossing the chamber, he tossed it into the fire grate where it belonged, watching it for a moment as it caught flame and burned. Then, he began the miserable climb to his mother’s apartments. Up the winding staircase that had formerly been a jewel in the crown of the once-glorious home but was now dull, in need of polish, and covered by a threadbare Axminster carpet that should have been replaced long ago.

But that detail, like the glaring rectangles and squares on the damask, bold and almost new in comparison to the faded wall coverings around them, was something that could not be remedied without securing a wealthy bride. And whilst he believed himself closer to achieving his goal where Rosamund was concerned, he wasn’t entirely sure of her just yet.

Oh, she had agreed most reluctantly after he had intentionally revealed the news of their “betrothal” to her good-intentioned mother. However, he didn’t fool himself that she was secure in her decision. She could change her mind and throw him over at any moment. He would have no recourse if she did so. And everything he had been struggling to protect these last few years would be consigned to flame just like the letter burning in his study.

But he wouldn’t think of that now.

Stuart stopped before his mother’s door and gave it a gentle rap. It opened at once to reveal her faithful lady’s maid, Norton. With her round-faced visage and her silver-streaked hair, she looked older than his mother, though he suspected that was the result of a life in service rather than her true years.

“Your Grace,” she greeted him with a ready, if tentative, smile, dipping into a curtsy.

“Is my mother amenable to receiving a visitor, Norton?” he asked, returning her smile though it pained him.

He took no pleasure in these visits. And even the sight of his mother, once a beloved reassurance, left him in a coil of anxious despair.

“Her Grace is having her tea and was about to sit down with a book, but I am certain she will be pleased to see you,” Norton reported, opening the door wider to allow him entrance.

He passed her, preparing himself for the familiar, stale scent of the room. All one had to do was cross the threshold to suspect that his mother’s apartments were kept closed up and shuttered off from the rest of the household. Thank heavens she allowed a chambermaid in to dust once a week.

His mother was seated at her writing desk, as she often was, and dressed in an elegant navy walking gown quite as if she might descend from her room for a promenade at any moment. Only Stuart knew that she had no intention of doing so.

“Camden,” she greeted him with a welcoming smile, making to rise.

He held up a staying hand, knowing that her left hip and knee were dreadfully weak, though they were not the reason for her self-imposed isolation. If anything, they had grown worse for her remaining in this prison of her own making.

“Stay seated, Mother, please,” he instructed softly.

She relented, gesturing to a stuffed chair set before the hearth, another favorite spot of hers. “Do sit and stay for a bit. I hope you will.”

He rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension residing there and folded his frame into the indicated seat. Despite the fact that his mother was never far, he didn’t allot her the time he ought, and he knew it. Seeing her thus pained him.

“You may send for me at any time,” he reminded her.

“Of course I can, but you are so very busy, are you not, my dear son?” Her smile was wistful as she studied him. “And how is my other son this fine day? I’ve not seen him in even longer than I have last seen you.”

Ah, the reason for his call had arrived, and sooner than he had suspected.

“Wesley is…” He paused, casting a glance in Norton’s direction. The servant was circumspect to a fault, but there were some conversations a man didn’t wish to have before an audience. This was one of them. He forced a smile. “Norton, that will be all for now. When I finish visiting with Her Grace, I’ll ring for you.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The other woman bobbed a polite curtsy and hastily took her leave.

The door clicked closed on her black woolen skirts.

“That was badly done of you, Camden,” Mother chided. “You know that Norton is to be trusted. There is nothing you cannot say before her that you would say to me.”

“I beg to differ,” he countered gently, ever aware of his mother’s fragile constitution. “The matter I’m about to discuss is a delicate one. It involves Wesley, you see.”

And whilst the entire household was more than aware of his brother’s gambling and drinking and whoring to excess, no one knew—nor could they likely countenance—what he was about to tell Mother.

She frowned, her blue eyes, so like his own, searching his. “You look concerned and tired. A bit thin as well. Have you been eating properly?”

He wanted desperately to remind her that she could join him in the dining room for any meal and ascertain for herself. But past remarks had only caused her further upset and had failed to accomplish their aim of luring her from her apartments.

“If I look concerned and tired, it’s because I am,” he conceded. “I have done everything in my power to keep all worries from your shoulders. However, I find myself in a position that is both untenable and insupportable for much longer. Wesley has been gambling away everything, down to the last farthing.”

“Gambling?” She pressed a hand to her heart. “My Wesley?”

Her shock was understandable. He had not told her of his brother’s gambling before. Instead, worried over her growing frailty, he had kept the truth from her in every capacity he could. The fewer concerns weighing upon her, the better, he had thought. Until Wesley had become further wrapped up in his illicit world and the demons that drove him to keep seeking the next false sense of happiness.

“I fear he is as bad as Father,” he revealed, “if not worse.”

Definitely worse. Wesley had squandered untold sums. Every act Stuart had taken to earn more and settle his brother’s debts had only led to Wesley losing more. Now, he very much feared that his desire to protect their mother from the truth had been responsible for enabling Wesley to lead them all to the brink of utter ruin.

“But Wesley never gambled,” Mother protested. “His weakness was always light-skirts.”

“And so his weakness continues to be,” Stuart agreed grimly. “Along with drink and only the Lord knows what other manners of vice. But I do not tell you this so that you can fret over his gambling. I tell you this because I cannot afford to keep him here or to continue funding his profligacy.”

She frowned. “But Camden, what does that mean? What do you intend? Wesley is your brother.”

“He is no true brother of mine,” he said tightly, hurt—even after the years that had passed—by Mother’s insistence upon overlooking Wesley’s every fault, no matter how grievous. And regardless of the cost to Stuart.

“You are still wounded by that wretched Lady Flora Seaton,” Mother observed, shaking her head.

The mention of Lady Flora continued to send a stab of aching betrayal straight through him.

“Do not speak of it,” he said, his voice soft.

His mother’s spine stiffened. “Her loose morals were her downfall. Did you not see the way she trailed after Wesley? He has a way about him, a certain charm. Has had since he was a very young lad. Why must you blame him for what was clearly that dreadful girl’s fault?”

“I blame him because he seduced her,” he ground out. “She was my betrothed, curse him, and he seduced her and deceived me.”

“If she’d had a care for you, she would never have allowed Wesley to turn her head,” Mother said, her voice raised, trembling in her ire.

This was not good for her, he reminded himself sternly. He needed to regain his control over his wayward tongue. This conversation was not about the past, nor was it even about him. Certainly, it was not about Lady Flora. Rather, it was about Wesley. It was about how Stuart’s obligations where his brother was concerned had to end.

He had finally been driven to the breaking point.

Ever since Mother’s stroke, just after the heated familial argument that had occurred when Stuart had discovered Wesley and his betrothed in a state of dishabille at what was to have been their betrothal ball, Stuart had kept his silence. He had held his tongue for fear of upsetting Mother’s precarious condition. Wesley knew it, and he had taken advantage of it at every opportunity.

Stuart realized he was clenching his jaw so damn tightly that it ached.

He forced himself to relax. Mother meant well. She didn’t know the extent of what Wesley was capable of. He had intentionally insulated her from his brother’s misadventures.

“You are correct that the lady in question didn’t care for me,” he allowed. “However, that doesn’t absolve Wesley of his sins.”

“Oh, it hurts my heart, Camden,” Mother lamented. “When will you forgive him?”

Never.

He wasn’t certain he was capable of it where Wesley was concerned. Not after everything his brother had done to so thoroughly destroy him, and all of it through jealousy. But he couldn’t tell Mother that. The doctor had made it explicitly clear that further upset could induce another stroke. She was to be protected at all costs.

“I haven’t come here to speak about the past, Mother,” he said gently, attempting to right the course of their conversation.

“Of course not.” She fidgeted with the gathering of her silk skirt, clearly agitated.

His fault.

And her distress was only about to grow worse when he told her what he had come to say, that he intended to cut his brother off—purse strings, roof over his head, everything.

“What is it that wish to tell me, Camden?” Mother pressed, frowning.

Stuart opened his mouth to tell her that Wesley was a vile infection that needed to be excised so that he wouldn’t ruin the lot of them. And he found that he couldn’t do it. The words would not come. His heart hammered against his chest, his gut tightening into a sickly knot of dread. These were not words his mother could bear to hear. If she suffered another stroke because of him… No, he couldn’t think it.

“I am to be married,” he said instead.

Mother’s fingers paused. “Married?”

“Yes.” He forced a smile, as if the revelation were joyous. “You are the first to hear the news. Our betrothal hasn’t been announced in The Times yet.”

“Oh, Camden.” She blinked as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I cannot tell you how happy this news makes me. I was beginning to despair over ever having grandchildren. Who is the fortunate lady you have chosen?”

Seeing the unfettered delight on his mother’s countenance pleased Stuart. Although marriage was the last institution in which he’d hoped to find himself, he couldn’t deny that watching her come to life at the news warmed something inside him. But he knew that when he revealed the woman who would be his wife, the announcement was likely to be met with concern. He hated to chase the cheer from his mother’s face, but there was no help for it.

“The lady who has agreed to become my wife is Miss Rosamund Payne,” he said.

“Miss Payne?” Mother’s eyebrows rose. “The same Miss Rosamund Payne who was betrothed to Wesley before she threw him over?”

He nodded. “I am reasonably certain there is only one.”

Mother sighed. “Pray do not tell me this is some manner of misguided attempt to get revenge on Wesley over what happened with Lady Flora.”

In part. Guilt tugged at his conscience, but he tamped it down.

“If you don’t wish it, then I won’t,” he said smoothly, aware that his response was more half-truth than outright lie.

“Camden.” The disappointment in his mother’s voice echoed the expression on her face. “You cannot think to consign yourself or Miss Payne to a union founded on vengeance.”

“Miss Payne and I have decided we suit,” he said, ignoring her entreaty.

“It is because of her fortune as well, is it not?” Mother asked shrewdly. “I know you asked me not to speak of such matters, but the servants do gossip.”

“Norton?” he demanded, surprised to hear it.

The lady’s maid turned companion had always seemed above reproach.

“The chambermaid,” Mother admitted, a hint of color suffusing her pale cheeks. “If you must know. But I beg of you, don’t sack the chit. I’m rather fond of the tales she tells me.”

He might have laughed at that were he not left so raw from the continual battle he waged with his brother, his conscience, and the need to protect Mother from it all.

“I’ll not sack her,” he reassured Mother. “And yes, since you have asked, I took Miss Payne’s immense dowry and fortune into consideration before offering for her. You know the circumstances Father’s death left me in, and whilst I have been doing my utmost to rectify the estates and refill the coffers, I find myself at a disadvantage on numerous fronts. Marrying her will bring some much-needed funds at a most opportune time.”

“It’s not a love match, then.”

His mother sounded disappointed.

“It is a mutually beneficial union,” he said. “I admire Miss Payne in many ways, and I am confident she will make an excellent wife.”

“And you, Camden. Will you make her a good husband?” Mother wanted to know. “The marriage I had with your father was not a happy one. I wish for so much more for my sons.”

He was more than aware of the enmity that had existed between his sire and his mother. His youth had been a misery of shouts, broken glass, accusations, and rage, steeped in alcohol and adultery. Both his mother and his father had taken lovers, some of whom had flitted about the house as if they belonged. None of whom had made their misery any less.

Still, this was the first Mother had spoken openly of her own discontent.

“I will be as good of a husband to Miss Payne as I am able,” he said honestly.

It was the only promise he could make.

“I hope you do, my son, just as I hope you are marrying Miss Payne for the right reasons,” Mother said, then smothered a yawn. “Forgive me. I am feeling rather weary today. I’m sure it’s the weather.”

The weather was gray and misting, as it was most days. But his mother did look tired. He rose and moved to her, bending to place an affectionate kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll ring for Norton. You should have a nap.”

“Thank you, dear son. I am feeling better today, you know. Perhaps I shall see you at dinner.”

He rose, giving her a wistful smile. “Only if you are able, Mother.”

They both knew that she wouldn’t be joining him. But always when he left her, it was with the tiniest flicker of hope that she might leave her room at last and rejoin the world of the living below. And each time, that hope was inevitably snuffed out like a candle.

Stuart turned to leave her room.

“Camden?”

Mother’s call stopped him. He turned back to find her watching him.

“I love you, my dear son.”

He swallowed against a rising lump of emotion. “I love you as well, Mother.”

He fled her apartments, telling himself that he had made the right decisions. That he had made the only decision. For Mother’s sake, he would simply have to endure Wesley’s poisonous wrath.

“Drat. No, no, no. This will not do. Not at all.”

Frowning, Rosamund glared at the watercolor before her. Ordinarily, she sought solace in the quiet hours she spent in the town house gardens with her brush, easel, and paint set. But today, despite the weather having improved and the day being relatively mild and the birds singing sweetly as they winged into her charmed square of carefully cultivated flowers and shrubbery, there was no peace to be found.

She had broken the small glass from her watercolor set meant for cleaning brushes, having dropped it on the stone path. And then, she had run out of vermilion and purple lake. Whilst she had sent a footman to fetch her more, the delay had been no less irksome.

“Talking to yourself again, my dear?”

Miranda’s amused voice had Rosamund turning with a guilty start to find her smiling friend gliding toward her on the path. The gurgling fountain at Rosamund’s side had kept her from hearing her friend’s approach.

She rose from the bench, grateful for the distraction. “I always talk to myself when Megs is not about.”

The African grey didn’t prefer the out-of-doors, whilst Rosamund liked to pursue the pastime in the sunlight, often using garden elements, flowers, and birds as her inspiration for her paintings.

“How is our feathered friend today?” Miranda asked, smiling from beneath the jaunty brim of her hat, a small basket draped over one arm.

She was dressed in a handsome visiting gown of puce silk faille ornamented with satin ribbons and blonde lace, a striped underskirt peeking from beneath a dramatic slit. Her ebony curls had been secured at her nape, with a few left free to frame her face. She was the epitome of the fashionable London lady. Rosamund, by contrast, wore a plain gown of tan silk trimmed with a hint of red and decorated with splatters of watercolors that had dripped from her palette.

“Megs is as naughty as ever, and she was quite displeased with me for leaving her to paint en plein air ,” Rosamund answered. “Your gown is gorgeous. I’m feeling rather dowdy in my painting frock.”

“You could never be dowdy, darling.” Miranda ventured nearer to her easel, taking a peek at the watercolor Rosamund had been attempting to distract herself with.

And failing miserably. Both at the painting itself and the distraction.

“I am always dowdy,” she countered, “though I do love you for your unfailing loyalty. I’m so pleased to see you this afternoon. It’s a pleasant surprise.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Miranda said.

“Of course not,” she hastened to reassure her. “As you can see, I’m merely plodding my way through this watercolor. I’ve already broken my water glass and run out of colors, so it’s just as well that I put an end to my efforts for the day. Shall we take tea inside?”

“You needn’t ring for tea on my account. I’m not staying long as I must get back to the school. I wanted to deliver this treat to you, to see what you think.”

Her stomach growled as if it had heard the news of Miranda’s treat. “I hope it’s something edible.”

Miranda’s treats usually were confections she was working on for her school of cookery. And they were infallibly delicious.

“Of course it is.” Miranda smiled as she took the basket from her arm and settled it atop the marble table flanking the bench where Rosamund had been seated. “I’ve been working on a recipe for cornets à la Marguerite , and I think I’ve finally settled upon one that will do well paired with a cream ice. I was hoping you might try one without the cream ice and give me your thoughts.”

Her stomach applauded the opportunity.

“I would love to,” Rosamund said.

Miranda’s culinary prowess had been one of many sources of contention between herself and Ammondale. He had been horrified that his countess continued to pursue such a bourgeois passion. She had been determined not to surrender her dream of her school of cookery.

Miranda lifted the basket lid to reveal a handful of cornets stacked within, their openings decorated with carmine royal icing and chopped pistachios. The sweet scent of them reached Rosamund.

“They look lovely, Miranda,” she praised her friend.

Miranda beamed with pride. “Thank you. Take one and tell me what you think, if you please.”

Rosamund reached for one of the delicate cornets, eager to try it. The confection was crisp and delightful, the flavors of almond, sugar, and orange flower water creating the perfection combination. Miranda watched her, eagerly anticipating her response.

Rosamund finished chewing and then swallowed. “These are so delicious that you don’t even need to fill them with cream ice.”

“Do you think?” Miranda bounced on her toes like a girl, grinning. “Not too much orange flower water?”

“The perfect amount.” Rosamund took another delightful bite.

“Would you change anything? What about the pistachios?”

“Megs would approve.”

“She was my inspiration for them, if you must know,” Miranda revealed with a conspiratorial air. “I’ve been toying with the recipe for an apple cream ice that I think would pair splendidly with these. When I’m satisfied with it, you and Mrs. Payne must come to tea, and we shall have them for dessert.”

“That would be lovely.” Rosamund finished the last of her cornet before the sudden realization struck her. “Although soon, I expect I’ll not be requiring my mother to accompany me on my social calls.”

Miranda gave her a shrewd look. “You’ve made your final decision, then?”

Swallowing hard against a rush of emotion, Rosamund nodded. “I have.”

“Oh, my dear friend.” Miranda sighed and laid a comforting hand on her arm. “I trust that congratulations are in order?”

Rosamund smiled weakly. “I suppose.”

“And what did His Grace make of the stipulations you presented him with? Do tell.”

A bird called overhead, flapping past them and settling in the branches of a nearby tree. Rosamund stared at the happy little bird for a moment, thinking of what Camden had told her.

“He said he agreed with them.” She turned back to Miranda. “That he hasn’t a choice in the matter.”

The admission made a blade of guilt knife through her conscience. She didn’t like the notion that his circumstances had essentially forced him into a union, even if it was no fault of hers and he had been the one to seek her out with his unconventional proposal.

“Perhaps we should sit and talk for a few moments,” Miranda suggested, sounding concerned. “If you don’t mind further interruption of your watercolors, that is?”

“As you can see, I’ve been rather preoccupied.” She gestured to her pitiful attempt at capturing the gardens. “Save me from tormenting myself, please.”

Miranda chuckled. “Nonsense. You are extremely talented. I have the fountain painting you made for me hanging in a place of pride in my sitting room.”

“And undoubtedly, all your guests cannot help but to wonder why you have such a wretched little thing hanging there,” she said wryly.

They settled on the large stone bench, frightening the bird who had been watching them, for it flew from its branch.

“Ha,” Miranda said. “You are far too modest, my dear. But let us speak of your impending marriage now. Are you happy, Rosamund?”

“This entire affair has been most unexpected,” she confided. “I’m not certain how I feel about it all just yet. Concerned, for certain. It is quite strange to think I’ll soon be marrying a man I scarcely know and bearing his children, sharing the marriage bed with him.”

Rosamund didn’t dare speak of such matters with Mother, despite how much she loved her and the closeness of their relationship. There were certain things she simply could not mention to her mother without boiling in everlasting mortification. Thank heavens for the confidence of good friends.

“I was in your shoes when I married Ammondale,” Miranda said gently. “Unfortunately, my husband did not take care with me in the marriage bed. I hope for your sake that Camden is a more generous and patient husband than the earl was.”

Her friend’s words did nothing to assuage the worries that had been gnawing at her ever since the day before, when Camden had formally agreed to her stipulations, with Mother as an audience.

“How will I know?” she asked, feeling woefully uninformed about such matters.

Her knowledge was limited to what she had heard from friends or read, fleetingly, in books. Rosamund had only ever exchanged kisses with suitors, nothing more familiar.

“Have you and the duke kissed?” Miranda asked quietly.

She thought of those heated kisses yesterday, which had come just before a timely interruption, and her cheeks warmed. “Once.”

“And was it pleasant?”

Rosamund nodded. “Very much so.”

Miranda smiled sadly. “That is a good sign, my dear.”

She hated the melancholy in her friend’s countenance. And, if she were honest, it also filled her with even more misgiving for the marriage of convenience she had agreed to herself.

“If I may ask, what was it like between you and Ammondale before you wed?”

“He was…painfully polite is the best description. I ascribed his lack of interest in me to a sense of propriety. His mother was a true stickler for every polite society rule, and I believed he had inherited her strict sense of what is right or wrong.” She paused, a wry smile curving her lips. “As it happened, he was merely wildly in love with his mistress and was marrying me for the sole purpose of gaining a legitimate heir.”

Miranda’s story was uncomfortably close to the miserable marriage Rosamund had narrowly avoided with Lord Wesley. Only, Wesley hadn’t been marrying her for an heir but her fortune instead, and he had proclaimed his love for her loudly and often. That had been the most egregious betrayal of all, that he had pretended to love her.

“I’m so sorry for all you endured,” she told her friend earnestly.

“It is in the past now,” Miranda said. “Ammondale and I were never compatible in the way a husband and wife ought to be. It was our downfall, I believe. But enough of that. What concerns me most is your future. I want your happiness, my dear.”

She wanted happiness too. A family of her own. But she also wanted to be sure that marrying Camden was the right step for her to take. It would seem there was only one way to manage that—discover whether she and the duke were truly compatible, as a husband and wife.

Precisely how she would arrive at that was a question that required pondering.

“Thank you, my friend.” She patted Miranda’s arm in sisterly fashion. “For now, do you think I might have another cornet?”

Miranda grinned. “You may keep them all. Give some to your mother and let me know what she thinks as well. I should be on my way now. The school is a hive of activity today.”

They rose from the bench and exchanged farewells. As Rosamund watched her friend’s departing back, she settled upon a plan. Tomorrow, she had a wedding to attend—Viscount Sidmouth and her friend Hyacinth, Lady Southwick, were marrying in the morning. She had no doubt that Camden would be in attendance, for he and the Duke of Brandon were both chums with Sidmouth.

That settled it. She would find Camden at the wedding and speak with him then.