Page 29

A pile of newspapers littered the table with various headlines: ‘Queen Consort accused of adultery,’ ‘King George Appeals to Parliament for Divorce,’ ‘Pains and Penalties debated in Lords.’ Montford, whose cynicism on domestic politics was usually unshakeable, now thumped each paper as though it were artillery in a siege.

Rotham objected that the real mischief was the delay of the coronation until August, thereby forcing every respectable household to remain sweltering in London when they should have taken refuge in the shires.

Freddy drank a light ale and listened for ten patient minutes, but his thoughts were inclined to wander.

Frankly, he had no head for politics, divorce bills, or the moral fate of Caroline of Brunswick.

If the marriage was so distasteful to both parties, then why should it continue?

At least King George hadn’t beheaded her like Henry the VIII had when he could no longer abide his wives!

A lull occurred when Westwood, Carew, and Stuart arrived. Freddy seized it.

“Have you discovered anything about St. John, Stuart?”

Stuart accepted a drink from the waiter, then answered, “To be fair, my researches show nothing nefarious. Colonel St. John’s commission is honourably held. There is no trace of any complaint against him.”

The group shifted uncomfortably at this news. Carew set down his glass, shrugged broad shoulders, and said, “And my enquiries revealed no hints of dipping too deep at the tables.”

“Debts of honour are not recorded in ledgers,” Freddy countered. “A vowel may pass from hand to hand.”

Carew gave a shrug. “Perhaps he avoids the gaming hells, which is from whence my sources hail.” He took a sip of brandy. “I share your instinct, Cunningham, yet evidence runs thin. Have you anything besides instinct?”

“Nothing beyond seeing the man at Ascot,” Freddy admitted. “Though Joy mentioned that a similar man appeared to be watching the modiste the other day. Perhaps there is nothing more than coincidence, but I cannot shake the sensation that something is not right.”

Stuart regarded him gravely. “Instinct saved many a soldier in the Peninsula. I would not discount it.”

Carew leaned forward. “What do you propose?”

“We could have him followed,” Stuart spoke up. “But in the meantime, I have no indication there is any harm in his continued courtship of Joy.”

“If that is what it is. He has not spoken to me,” Westwood confided.

A silence followed, filled by the hum of conversations around them. Freddy took the brandy set before him yet did not raise it to his lips. “What of St. John’s family?”

Stuart shuffled pages from a small leather notebook.

“Second son and heir of Earl Trenton. His brother, the Earl, has no male issue, so I imagine this is why St. John now seeks a young wife. My enquiries have revealed he inherited a modest property, one Hathersall Priory in South Yorkshire, which has been let during his time in service to His Majesty.”

“Modest,” echoed Rotham. “Might be burdened. A let estate may as readily devour rents in repairs as generate income if there are no prosperous farms to support it.”

Stuart nodded. “The agent’s last report mentions timber blown down in the great gale and a roof needing slate. Nothing ruinous, but nothing to indicate great prosperity either.”

“Hence the possible need for an heiress,” Montford concluded. “And Joy, with Westwood’s guardianship and the dowry, is precisely that.”

“Do we fault him? Half the Marriage Mart runs on the same calculation.” Rotham was ever practical.

Freddy swallowed the bitter taste uncertainty left on his tongue. “I fault no man for wanting security,” he said. “I fault a man only if he trades truth for it.”

Carew leaned back, regarding him shrewdly. “You believe his suit lacks sincerity?”

Freddy’s fingers tightened round his glass. “I believe it lacks transparency.”

Westwood’s brows drew together. “You mentioned that Joy described a lurking fellow. Her vision is uncertain.”

“With the spectacles her vision is acute enough to distinguish a watcher from a passer-by,” Freddy replied coldly, then moderated his tone. He turned to Stuart. “You offered a plan. Put it in motion.”

Stuart closed the notebook. “A reliable Bow Street Runner can be engaged by dusk. He will observe St. John’s lodgings, track his movements, note all rendezvous. Give me a few days.”

Westwood nodded approval. “Do so. Meanwhile we must not alarm Joy.”

An ironic smile touched Freddy’s mouth. “I doubt much can ruffle Joy. But I shall try to keep mum.”

Rotham, who had watched the exchange with mingled amusement, now stretched. “If your Runner digs up nothing, will you concede the gentleman’s honour?”

Freddy met his gaze squarely. “If he proves himself honourable I will rejoice, for Joy deserves no less, but until then, I reserve judgement.”

With the business temporarily concluded, the circle’s attention drifted back to politics.

Montford was indignant that anyone would postpone the coronation purely to bully a royal spouse.

Westwood argued that public opinion must cool or else stones would fly.

Freddy, distracted, let the talk wash over him.

If only information could be won about St. John as readily as rumours about the Queen Consort flew about the club.

Yet, what could he do?

Freddy excused himself, then began walking, destination ambiguous.

He needed time to clear his head. Something did not feel right about St. John, yet there was nothing to discredit him.

Maybe he had dipped too deeply at the races, but that was nothing more than half the ton could claim at one time or another.

It certainly did not make him unworthy, unless it was something he could not recover from.

He was a decorated soldier from a good family.

If he made Joy happy, then that mattered above all else.

Freddy knew he should go back to wooing. He could make some afternoon calls and take someone for a drive or walk through the park, yet he soon found himself in Berkley Square.

“Good day, Hartley.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cunningham. Miss Joy is in the garden with the cats.”

“Of course she is. I know the way.” Freddy kept his hat since he was going back outside.

“Very good, sir.”

Freddy walked through the house and into the gardens and found Joy sitting on a bench near the small fountain. Frederica was sunning herself next to Joy, whilst Camilla and Lord Orville were romping about with each other.

“Why are you not out making calls, young lady?”

“Freddy! I did not hear you come in.”

“Is your head bothering you?” He shifted completely to concern, and slid onto the bench beside her.

“I think perhaps I am still adjusting to the spectacles. ’Tis nothing for you to concern yourself with.” Frederica rolled over on her back, and Joy began to stroke the cat’s stomach.

“You are certain that is all?”

“Freddy, am I erring in some way? There have been no declarations. St. John has not yet spoken to Westwood.”

Freddy was glad of it, but he did not say that to Joy. Something inside him twisted with pain that anything would make Joy question herself or her worthiness.

Freddy was glad of it, but he did not say that to Joy.

Something clawed within—half fury that she should imagine fault, half savage relief that the Colonel was holding his tongue.

He watched the wind lift a stray curl from her temple, sunlight glinting off the spectacles’ gold rim.

She looked very small just then, almost defenceless, as though a change in breeze might tip her doubts into certitude.

“Erring?” he echoed softly. “Joy, you have done everything except ride into Almack’s on a charger announcing your dowry. A man who cannot gather the courage to speak when you stand before him is hardly a prize worth fretting over.”

She gave a rueful tug at her bonnet strings. “Perhaps he is merely still evaluating me.”

“Evaluating is what one does with horseflesh. People require rather more affection.” Freddy leaned forward, elbows on knees, forcing himself to sound teasing rather than savage.

“Besides, the Season is only half over. There is still time for any number of gentlemen to discover your worth; gentlemen who can complete a sentence without military metaphors—or heroics.”

Joy’s mouth curved. “It is rather tedious.”

His pulse lurched. “I confess I save my heroics for emergencies—runaway curricles, damsels in rivers, that sort of thing.”

Joy laughed and the sound loosened a knot beneath his ribs. “What will I do without you to make me laugh, Freddy? Our plan is not meeting with success.”

Freddy did not know what to say to that. Part of him wanted to call an end to searching for anyone else, but she deserved to see St. John’s courtship through, if that was her desire.

“You will never lose me, Joy.”

She thought for a moment and opened her mouth, then closed it as if she decided against whatever she was going to say. “Very well. But if I am to endure more spectacles-induced headaches, I shall require reading aloud—Edgeworth today. Will you oblige?” She plucked the book up off the bench.

“Any time you ask.” He took it from her hands.

A warm silence settled as he began to read.

Camilla swatted at the tassels on his Hessians whilst Lord Orville settled at Joy’s feet for a nap.

Freddy watched Joy’s smile tilt towards contentment and swore, quietly, that no question of worthiness would reach her ears again—at least, not while he had breath to answer it.