By the time he reached the quiet, sleepy-headed quadrangle of red-brick buildings, his thoughts had already returned to what mattered.
A marriage license.
A signature.
A wife who would serve as a shield while he continued his work unseen.
James avoided the noisy probate courts and headed for the Registry of the Vicar-General. He entered the building without hesitation.
“You understand,” the Proctor said, dipping his quill once more, “that once this is filed, there is no altering it without considerable inconvenience, Your Grace.”
James did not look down at the parchment, but placed the two pounds on the desk. He had read every line the first time it was placed in front of him.
“And you swear there are no impediments to this marriage?”
James looked at the Proctor impatiently. He found himself annoyed by the way the candle on the desk guttered, as though it were doing so on purpose. “I do swear it, Mr. Spenlow.”
The Proctor answered with silent satisfaction and slid the page forward with the reverence that men always displayed when handling a duke’s affairs directly. “Your signature, Your Grace.”
James signed with a steady hand.
The Proctor sprinkled sand and blotted before he pressed the tax seal into the parchment and then laid the ecclesiastical seal with a ribbon.
James watched not too patiently as the Proctor then pressed the paper into a leather-bound folder as if it were something fragile. “Very well. The license is complete. It is now your legal authority to wed at All Saints’ Parish Church at the appointed time.”
James accepted the document, slipped it into his inner pocket, and stood.
The Proctor rose with him, bowing as he did. “Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage, Your Grace.”
James paused just long enough to offer a perfunctory nod.
Then he left.
Outside, the light was sharper. The air held the bite of winter and the haze of smoke. James descended the building’s steps, his mind already moving ahead of the next required actions.
The Baron’s updates had been punctual. Too punctual. Lord St. George wrote as though each detail were a currency he meant to spend.
The modiste is engaged. The vicar has been spoken to. The guest list is being prepared. My daughter is… agreeable.
Agreeable. James had almost laughed.
Miss Eleanor Barker was many things, but he doubted agreeable was among them.
A carriage rolled past, its occupants hidden behind frosted glass. A boy darted between wheels, shouting news no one listened to. James turned toward St. George Manor without hesitation, taking the most direct route.
It was not far. Lord St. George’s residence lay within easy reach of theton, close enough to be considered respectable, far enough to keep the truly important families from being inconvenienced by proximity.
As he walked, the city watched him.
A mother tugged her daughter closer when he passed, as though a duke were contagious. A gentleman tipped his hat. A pair of ladies whispered behind gloved hands, their eyes bright with the thrill of new information.
James ignored them all.
He had not spent the last twenty years honing his focus only to be distracted by gossip.
He reached St. George Manor within the hour.
Graham admitted him immediately, eyes wide, shoulders too rigid. “Your Grace.”
