My friend was plotting. His hatred of marriage might be something to aid me, stirring up other candidates to sway my intended. “Who’s this woman? Maybe there’s a scandal I can uncover and force her to release you.”
No. No. That’s not what I wanted. “Wait, Livingston. I don’t want to call off this marriage. If the young lady changes her mind about me, so be it. But no dredging anything up on her or her family. I’ll never speak to you again. I’m committed. Miss Wilcox is . . . is a goddess.”
“Wilcox . . . Would that be a sister of Lady Hampton?”
Oh, dear. Of course the man would know. “Yes, the sister of my intended, Lady Hampton, is a nice woman, but a little prickly. She tried to talk her sister out of marrying me. I assume she’s only looking out for her sister’s welfare.”
“You’ve become engaged to one of the Wilcox sisters? The daughters of the coal king.”
What? Coal king? As in a lot of coal or a fortune in coal or ruling a country with coal? “I suppose. Georgina Wilcox is probably one of the prettiest women I’ve seen in a long time. Of course you’ve heard of them. You make it your business to know about pretty women and gossip.”
“It’s not gossip. It’s insurance. Someone has to protect the men from marriage-minded mamas or viscountesses who are trying to ensnare unsuspecting men for their daughters or their sister.”
“It wasn’t like that at all. Lady Hampton is horrified. She will work to change her sister’s mind. She thinks I’m a fortune hunter.”
“Perhaps those Sundays with your mother have indoctrinated you. You’ve become the fortune hunter Lady Prahmn expects.”
That was a dismal thought.
I hoped Georgina or Lady Hampton didn’t think that of me.
“Well, I’m glad we are both friends of the duke. Torrance is very protective of the Wilcox family. He can attest to my character.”
At this, Livingston chuckled.
I’ve seen this man laugh at a lot of things, but this was a maniacal, evil laugh.
“What is it, sir? Why does Torrance trying to protect the young woman make you sound unhinged?”
“Do you know the duke’s history? You don’t, do you?”
“Tell me.” I sighed and steeled my stomach. “Tell me what you know.”
“Torrance fought to gain his title. The decision in the Court of Chancery was very close. The opposition to him claiming his due was intense. Many hated his parentage.”
“Why? He’s half Russian, half British. Our kings are Hanovers. Many in the ton have Germanic or Prussian roots. Why be bothered by Russians?”
“It’s not the Russian blood that caused the problem. It’s his Blackamoor roots. He’s half that as well.”
Livingston didn’t stutter. And I remembered the cane. Torrance had said it was his grandfather’s. It was African. One I’d assumed he acquired from other people, not belonging to his ancestors.
“I know it’s hard to tell, but he has them. Ghanaian or Ethiopian, I think. Torrance’s line can be traced to the Black prince of Tzar Peter’s court.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Well, you only met him a year ago. It’s not something that comes up in simple conversations. It seems not to matter to you. You chose Miss Wilcox. But color or, more so, race matters to some.”
My gut tightened. My friend, I thought from all his research, was enlightened. And I had seen Beethoven perform with George Bridgetower, the Blackamoor violinist championed by the Prince Regent. And I worshipped the compositions of Chevalier de Saint-Georges, whose talent rivaled Mozart’s. I’d come to understand that music arose from the soul. It had nothing to do with skin pigment.
“Do you have a problem with Torrance having his title, Livingston? Will you object to my wife and not bow to a daughter of the coal king?”
He tugged at his wilting cravat, retying it. “I’ve watched the dissection of human flesh. Everyone looks the same underneath. Shed blood is red from all bodies. I’ve no problem with Torrance. Or your prospective bride. I hate the institution of marriage. I wouldn’t wish it on any man.”
My stomach eased. I wanted to believe my friends all thought the same. Yet, I knew my father, and probably the heir, wouldn’t be so liberal. The spare with his past affairs might be, but Christopher was married and back in London.
“Sebastian, if I were of the marrying sort who needed funds, the wealthy trade class would be where I searched. The Wilcoxes are prime targets. But I have money and will never wed again.”
Except for mistaking a gentle lady for a courtesan, I believed I was a reasonable judge of character. “Thank you, Livingston. It’s reassuring to know my friendships are good.”
