Page 65 of A Portrait of Love

Honey did not know what to say—did not know why he told her this, although she was grateful that he had.

“I’m telling you this,” he said, as if reading her mind, “Because I want you to know two things. First, Saybrook only does what he wants to do. Always. He should have gone back to HQ with the information. Instead, he jeopardized thousands of lives disobeying orders and coming for me. Second, and far more important for you, Honey, that man does not care if he lives or dies. Because that was not the first time that he pulled such a stunt and it wouldn’t be the last. He was not famed for his behavior—he was notorious for it.”

The ancient wooden door behind them opened with a screech and they all three turned.

There stood Simon, his tall body limned by the light.

“Good Lord,” he said, “don’t tell me I’m late?”

***

“I Simon Bevil Charles Fairchild do take Honoria Agnes Keyes ….”

It was really happening; Simon was getting married.

He had been in an odd fugue state ever since arriving in London.

After leaving Honey’s house that first day he’d gone directly to Doctors Commons and laid out the twenty guineas for a special license.

With that in his pocket he had gone to Grenier’s Hotel, which was conveniently located and suited his plans: Tedious plans that involved purchasing clothes, ordering new boots, dropping in at Whites—not an activity he was looking forward to—and generally making himself presentable.

Simon had not been in big crowds or mingled with people who didn’t know him since returning from Belgium.

He had always believed that he had a strong constitution, but after stopping at several busy posting inns, he was fed up with being gawked at.

He was also exhausted.

After procuring the license he’d fallen into his bed and slept until noon the following day. As a result, he’d been late to his meeting with his wife-to-be, who’d appeared to be in the midst of a domestic whirlwind when he was shown into her parlor.

Her glorious hair was hidden under an ugly mobcap and her gown was old and out of style and generally a good match for his own clothing—a reminder that his plans for the rest of the day included shopping.

Once she’d seated him and placed an unwanted cup of tea in his hands she went on the offensive. “Have you made any arrangements for the service?”

Feeling like the greatest dolt in the nation, Simon admitted he had not. What the devil had he been thinking? Or not thinking?

“I wish to marry at Saint Olav’s.”

He had wracked his brains but had come up with nothing.

She’d noticed his blank look. “Seething Lane.”

The name conjured up skulls and a cemetery, but not a church. “I seem to recall a rather unusual—”

“That is the lychgate—it has a skull frieze.”

Ah, yes. Rather macabre but fitting for a union that had been forced up on her, he supposed. “I have no issue with your choice,” he’d said, taking a sip of tea and biting back a grimace. He would have to tell her after they were married that he hated tea.

“As the ceremony is supposed to be two days hence perhaps you might make arrangements. Today.”

Simon had smiled at the silky sarcasm in her voice; his wife-to-be was not a shrinking violet. That was good, he did not like spiritless women. “I shall handle it,” he promised. It was dreadfully short notice but he suspected a proper donation would help ease matters.

She’d sniffed and they enjoyed their beverages accompanied by the tick of the mantle clock and the muffled sound of street noises.

“I should like Lady Sedgewick and Mr. Ingram as my witnesses.”

“I’m glad to hear it—I don’t have anyone.”

“What are your plans after the ceremony?”