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He picked up the quill, fingering the goose feather’s stiff tip. “Tell me, why bestow such an enormous settlement?”
The bequeathment made no sense. Was it because of her gypsy blood? Stapleton had already offered him her hand, and Ian had been forced to accept it—had given his word he’d marry the wench unless Stapleton terminated the agreement. The man didn’t have to endow his niece at all.
“She’s not even your daughter,” Ian murmured, gauging Stapleton’s reaction.
The older man paused, papers in hand. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring.
Ian almost grinned. Oh, that had riled him. Interesting. Yes, very interesting indeed.
“Perhaps not in name, but Vangie is every bit as much my daughter as Yvette. I’d have taken her into my home in an instant, but an unfortunate stipulation in her father’s will prohibited my doing so.”
What kind of a stipulation could thwart a man of Stapleton’s means and power? Ian eyed him a moment longer then dropped his gaze to the papers before him. Best to see it finished. He dipped the quill in the bottle of ink. Blister it. He was done over. The noose was knotted, the rope stretched tight. There was no escape. The gallows had him.
With bold, angry strokes, he signed the contract. Afterward, he tossed the quill onto the desk, leaving the solicitor to sprinkle sand across the wet ink.
Mr. Dehring frowned his disapproval and tsked as he rushed to wipe the ink droplets off the desktop before they left a permanent stain.
Ian rose, and yanking on his gloves, met Stapleton’s irritated gaze. Pointing at the drying paper, he said, “You know this compulsory marriage won’t restore your niece’s reputation any more than it will halt the chatterboxes’ tongues.”
Stapleton smiled then, a self-satisfied grin that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. “Perhaps not, but I’ve recruited several powerful, influential peers and their wives to spread their own on dit. Even as we speak, they’re busy repairing the damage you caused.” Levering to his feet, his expression hardened to steel. “No doubt you’re aware how far my hand reaches when necessary.”
The merest hint of a threat laced his words.
“Indeed,” Ian snapped, slapping his topper on his head before turning on his boot-heels and striding from the room. Another minute and he’d have been tempted to plant Stapleton a facer. Or shake his hand. Even in his anger, Ian could appreciate a great strategist. The man was shrewd. Diabolically shrewd.
Running down the stairs, Ian breathed in London’s stagnant air. God, he couldn’t wait to leave the putrid city for the countryside. He leapt into the curricle. Balanced on the buttoned, black leatherette seat, he tooled the horse the length of Red Croft Street. Another grudging smile curved his mouth at the colossal fallacy Stapleton likely spread to preserve his niece’s character.
Why, there’s nothing gossip-worthy at all.
Surely you’re aware Miss Caruthers and Lord Warrick are practically neighbors in Northumberland. They’ve known each other for a number of years and are secretly betrothed. Naturally, that’s why he only asked her to dance at the ball.
The wedding was planned for late summer, but due to the recent tragic loss of his father and brother, all the details have yet to be finalized. Yes indeed, it’s a simple matter to procure a special license and move the wedding date forward.
What balderdash. Was there a ninnyhammer gullible enough to believe that claptrap? Ian’s face split into a grin. Indeed. Most of le bon ton.
Turning the equipage down another cobblestone street, he made for Berkley Square. He’d yet to inform his staff that on the morrow they’d have a new mistress. His pulse quickened despite himself. Most likely, his staff had already heard tattle of the marriage. What else might they have heard? A January plunge in the Thames couldn’t have cooled his ardor any faster.
He supposed it was acceptable, even expected, for one’s betrothed to see to their intended’s personal needs when an ill-fated situation presented itself. While some would argue he shouldn’t have been in the ladies’ retiring room no matter the cause, others could make an equally sound argument it was his duty, as Miss Caruthers’ intended, to see to her well-being.
Stapleton was ensuring that particular tidbit was planted in the right ears. As the tale circulated among elite circles, eyebrows would be raised of course, and Ian knew those hoping for a juicy scandal would be compelled to settle for something a mite less succulent.
What utter rot. The ton believed what was convenient to believe. Now he was in a devil’s own scrape, soon to be leg-shackled to a flirtatious jade.
He snorted his contempt and maneuvered the curricle around a stable cart buzzing with flies and piled high with filthy straw and horse manure. The crack of the curricle’s wheel giving way rent the air. Bloody hell. What next? The horse stumbled, and Ian was hurled from his seat, crashing headlong into the manure cart.
