“Lord St. George,” James said, handing over his gloves.
“Yes, Your Grace. He is expecting you.”
Of course he was.
Lord St. George met him in the front hall, flushed and overly eager, as though he had been standing there waiting for the sound of James’s footsteps.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “This is an honor.”
James inclined his head. “I have secured the license. All Saints’ in three days’ time. Our appointment is set.”
Lord St. George’s face transformed. “Excellent. Excellent, the girls are just in the drawing room,” he said with forced cheer. “But before we continue, Your Grace, there is a matter of the dowry.”
“I do not care to discuss it, St. George,” James said sharply.
Lord St. George took two broad steps so as to stand in front of him. “Well, I must explain… Your Grace, please?”
James lifted his eyebrows and then gave the Baron one tight nod.
“While I cannot provide the portion in liquid currency today, I have settled thirty thousand pounds in the Three Percent Consols upon her. The principal is to be held in trust, ensuring her a permanent income of nine hundred pounds per annum for her own use, with the capital eventually passing to the children of this marriage, Your Grace.”
“Very well, St. George. I understand. Her dowry means very little to me. But it is settling to know you have taken care of her in at least this one way,” James said, with more venom in his speech.
Silence rested between them as he watched the Baron’s expression change from forced cheer to rankled to forced cheer once more. James let the silence build to the Baron’s discomfort, and nodded dramatically.
“As you wish, Your Grace. Please,” the Baron gestured grandly down the corridor. “The ladies are just this way.”
James followed without comment.
He heard voices before he saw them. Charlotte’s voice most distinctly, pitched to be heard. A performance about lilies being removed as James entered.
The drawing room was crowded with fabrics and fuss. Boxes sat open. A seamstress hovered near the fireplace like preyuncertain of the predator’s mood. Miss Charlotte Barker stood in a pale robe; her hair arranged in a way meant to appear effortless. Miss Arabella Barker sat near the window, quiet and watchful.
And Miss Eleanor Barker–
James’s gaze found her immediately.
She stood slightly apart from the others, holding a folded length of ivory silk with steady hands. Her gown was plain, the sort of thing that disappeared in a room full of ornament. Yet she did not disappear.
She looked up at him, and something shifted in James’s chest.
Not softness.
Recognition.
Charlotte beamed. “Your Grace. You have arrived at precisely the right time. We were discussing the floral arrangements for the wedding breakfast.”
“I do not care about flowers,” James said.
A beat of silence.
Charlotte recovered first with a tinkling laugh. “Of course not. Gentlemen rarely do.”
James did not look at her. “How are the preparations progressing?”
Lord St. George launched into an enthusiastic report. “The invitations are being distributed. Your Grace has secured All Saints’ Parish. And the time?”
“Ten.”
