‘You said I could have all I wanted. And so I shall.’ But there was no anger as he said it. ‘Your hand, madam.’ He took her left hand and slipped something on to the ring finger, then reached for the pen.
She glanced down. The smith had twisted a horseshoe nail into a crude semblance of a ring, and her hand was heavily weighted with it. Further proof that she had truly been to Scotland, since the X of the smith held no real meaning.
Adam signed with a flourish, beside her own name. ‘We need to seal it as well. Makes it look more official.’ He snatched the candle from the table and dripped a clot of the grease at the bottom of the paper, and pulled out his watch fob, which held a heavy gold seal. ‘There. As good as anything in Parliament.’ He grinned down at the paper and tipped the flask up for another drink.
She stared at the elegant signature above the wax. ‘Adam Felkirk, Duke of Bellston.’
‘At your service, madam.’ He bowed deeply, and the weight of his own head overbalanced him. Then he pitched forward, striking his head on the corner of the table, to fall unconscious at her feet.
Chapter Three
Adam regained consciousness, slowly. It was a mercy, judging by the way he felt when he moved his head. He remembered whisky. A lot of whisky. Followed by brandy, which was even more foolish. And his brain and body remembered it as well, and were punishing him for the consumption. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry as cotton, and his eyes felt full of sand.
He moved slightly. He could feel bruises on his body. He reached up and probed the knot forming on his temple. From a fall.
And there had been another fall. In the coach yard.
Damn it. He was alive.
He closed his eyes again. If he’d have thought it through, he’d have recognised his mistake. Carriages were slowing down when they reached the inn yard. The one he’d stepped in front of had been able to stop in time to avoid hitting him.
‘Waking up, I see.’
Adam raised his head and squinted into the unfamiliar room at the man sitting beside the bed. ‘Who the devil are you?’
The man was at least twenty years his senior, but unbent by age, and powerfully built. He was dressed as a servant, but showed no subservience, for he did not answer the question. ‘How much do you remember of yesterday, your Grace?’
‘I remember falling down in front of an inn.’
‘I see.’ The man said nothing more.
‘Would you care to enlighten me? Or am I to play yes and no, until I can suss out the details?’
‘The carriage you stepped in front of belonged to my mistress.’
‘I apologise,’ he said, not feeling the least bit sorry. ‘I hope she was not unduly upset.’
‘On the contrary. She considered it a most fortunate circumstance. And I assure you, you were conscious enough to agree to what she suggested, even if you do not remember it. We did not learn your identity until you’d signed the licence.’
‘Licence?’
‘You travelled north with us, your Grace. To Scotland.’
‘Why the devil would I do that?’ Adam lowered his voice, for the volume of his own words made the pounding in his skull more violent.
‘You went to Gretna, to a blacksmith.’
He shook his head, and realised immediately that it had been a mistake to try such drastic movement. He remained perfectly still and attempted another answer. ‘It sounds almost as if you are describing an elopement. Did I stand in witness for someone?’
The servant held the paper before him, and he could see his shaky signature at the bottom, sealed with his fob and a dab of what appeared to be candle wax. Adam lunged for it, and the servant stepped out of the way.
His guts heaved at the sudden movement, leaving him panting and sweating as he waited for the rocking world to subside.
‘Who?’ he croaked.
‘Is your wife?’ completed the servant.
‘Yes.’
‘Penelope Winthorpe. She is a printer’s daughter, from London.’
‘Annulment.’
‘Before you suggest it to her, let me apprise you of the facts. She is worth thirty thousand a year and has much more in her bank. If I surmise correctly, you were attempting to throw yourself under the horses when we met you. If the problem that led you to such a rash act was monetary, it was solved this morning.’
He fell back into the pillows and struggled to remember any of the last day. There was nothing there. Apparently, he had fallen face down in the street and found himself an heiress to marry.
Married to the daughter of a tradesman. How could he have been so foolish? His father would be horrified to see the family brought to such.
Of course, his father had been dead for many years. His opinions in the matter were hardly to be considered. And considering that the result of his own careful planning was a sunk ship, near bankruptcy, and attempted suicide, a hasty marriage to some rich chit was not so great a disaster.
And if the girl were lovely and personable?
He relaxed. She must be, if he had been so quick to marry her. He must have been quite taken with her, although he did not remember the fact. There had to be a reason that he had offered for her, other than just the money, hadn’t there?
It was best to speak with her, before deciding on a course of action. He gestured to the servant. ‘I need a shave. And have someone draw water for a bath. Then I will see this mistress of yours, and we will discuss what is to become of her.’
An hour later, Penelope hesitated at the door to the duke’s bedroom, afraid to enter and trying in vain to convince herself that she had any right to be as close to him as she was.
The illogic of her former actions rang in her ears. What had she been thinking? She must have been transported with rage to have come up with such a foolhardy plan. Now that she was calm enough to think with a clear head, she must gather her courage and try to undo the mess she’d made. Until the interview was over, the man was her husband. Why should she not visit him in his rooms?
But the rest of her brain screamed that this man was not her husband. This was the Duke of Bellston, peer of the realm and leading figure in Parliament, whose eloquent speeches she had been reading in The Times scant weeks ago. She had heartily applauded his opinions and looked each day for news about him, since he seemed, above all others, to offer wise and reasoned governance. As she’d scanned the papers for any mention of him, her brother had remarked it was most like a woman to romanticise a public figure.
But she had argued that she admired Bellston for his ideas. The man was a political genius, one of the great minds of the age, which her brother might have noticed, had he not been too mutton-headed to concern himself with current affairs. There was nothing at all romantic about it, for it was not the man itself she admired, but the positions he represented.
And it was not as if the papers had included a caricature of the duke that she was swooning over. She had no idea how he might look in person. So she had made his appearance up in her head out of whole cloth. By his words, she had assumed him to be an elder statesmen, with grey hair, piercing eyes and a fearsome intellect. Tall and lean, since he did not appear from his speeches to be given to excesses, in diet or spirit.
If she were to meet him, which of course she never would, she would wish only to engage him in discourse, and question him on his views, perhaps offering a few of her own. But it would never happen, for what would such a great man want with her and her opinions?
She