And now that she was home, she had gone from the frying pan into the fire, as the saying went.
“Ruined?” Lady Pevensey cried. Her eyes looked wild. “Lucasta?”
His wonderful Lucasta lifted her chin. “I am not ruined in any sense of the term. The only way my cousin inconvenienced me was to keep me from rehearsals for the benefit concert. I scarcely know I’ll pull it off now, even with all the work the Gor—my friends have done to move things forward.”
The Baron fixed his son with a commanding glare. “Special license, I suppose,” he growled. “I’ll have to stand the expense, before word gets about.”
“Oh, indeed?” Trevor looked as bored as if they were discussing the weather. “And where shall my bride and I live, and on what income?”
“I have not consented,” Lucasta said. Lady Pevensey gave a low cry.
“Ask her Aunt Cornelia how, why don’t you?” the Baron replied to his son as if there were no one else in the room.
A babble of voices followed this remark, Lucasta’s clearest among them, but Jem broke over the noise with a carrying tone.
“Lucasta is contracted to marry me.”
Every neck in the room swiveled toward him. Among them, Lucasta looked most surprised, Trevor interested, Frotheringale outraged, and the Baron furious.
The Gorgons exchanged a fleeting look that Jem could only describe as knowing, while Cecilia Pevensey’s mouth fell open with astonished delight.
“You?” Lady Pevensey gasped.
“She cannot marry without the approval of her family,” the Baron said coldly.
“On the contrary, I am past the age of consent and therefore at liberty to give my hand where I wish.” Lucasta met the Baron’s glare with one of her own.
“You’ll marry Trevor!” the Baron roared. “Why else would I bring you here for the Season and spend money on your food and entertainment? You’ll show some gratitude, you insolent chit, and you’ll bring your fortune to my son, or by God I’ll see you cast out onto the street! And you’ll do it, you coxcomb, or find yourself without a roof over your head,” he addressed his son and heir.
Trevor appeared unmoved by his father’s blustering, though the Gorgons watched the Baron’s tantrum with great interest.
“And what about me, Father?” Cecilia asked, her voice small and plaintive. “Must I marry as well to retain a roof over my head?”
Frotheringale broke in before the Baron could formulate a reply. “Lucasta will marry me. She spent a week at my house with no chaperone. You yourself said she is ruined.”
“I am not ruined,” Lucasta exclaimed. Jem watched her annoyance turn to alarm as she realized no one was listening to her.
He reached into the pocket of his beautifully tailored coat and withdrew a piece of parchment. “Lucasta and I are precontracted,” he said. “I have the settlement papers here. They require only her signature.”
Utter silence followed this revelation.
“Papers?” Lucasta said blankly.
He nodded, holding her eyes. “The afternoon we—that I proposed. The same afternoon my grandfather—” His throat tightened. The haste would betray how badly he wanted her. “The solicitors were already there, you remember. So before they left, I, er, asked them to draw up a marriage settlement.”
The tightening around her eyes was not an indication of transports of joy. “How curious you did not discuss this with me,” she said.
Because he’d been terrified she might refuse him. He’d spent days racking his brains for arguments as to what he could offer, and before he had gathered the courage to approach her, she was gone.
“Give me that.” Frotheringale snatched the paper from Jem’s hand and, before anyone could stop him, tore the parchment in half. “There.” He tossed the pieces to the floor. “You are freed from your contract, Lucasta, and can now marry me.”
“My solicitor of course retained a copy for his own records,” Jem said. “With the date attached, so there will be evidence for the magistrate, if anyone wishes to inquire, that our contract precedes your abduction, Frotheringale.”
“Trevor,” the baron ordered, “stop him. Lucasta is contracted to marry you. Your agreement was far earlier?—”
“Lucasta cannot marry Trevor.” Lady Pevensey’s voice shook with strong emotion. “Her birth is not—” She faltered, then clenched her hands in her lap as if giving herself strength. “Her birth is not equal to his.”
“I don’t care what sort of low immigrant her father was,” the Baron exclaimed. “As your sister’s daughter, she stands to inherit your Aunt Cornelia’s estate. That one—” He flung a hand in Frotheringale’s direction— “already has an estate of his own. No reason he needs to get the whole pudding.”
