“You could contract a marriage of convenience,” his solicitor had suggested, ever looking for loopholes in the law. “Simply marry some lady who wants to be a countess and forget about her.”
A nice theory, but in reality, something was sure to go wrong, and Rafe would end up having to take care of his wife anyway. If life had taught him anything, it was that he did not need to look for trouble, because trouble would find him. Maybe if Rafe were a different man, he would take that risk, but he was not a different man.
He was still surprised that the solution had come from Lord Ventnor, of all people. Rafe preferred to ignore the viscount’s existence, but when he had heard of Ventnor’s rare orchids, and how Ventnor’s ignorant gardeners were murdering said orchids, Rafe had felt compelled to offer his advice for keeping the plants alive. At which point, Ventnor promised to give Rafe the orchids in exchange for helping to keep that social-climbing seductress Helen Knight away from Ventnor’s precious heir until he could find the boy a more suitable bride. It had been a small matter, in the circumstances, to send a man to learn more about Helen Knight, only to discover the scheme she was plotting with her sister. How nicely it all came together: Helen Knight would elope with Beau Russell, and Thea Knight would adopt a false name, thus giving Rafe a way to get married and get the money, but not end up with a wife.
Oh, and Ventnor would be apoplectic with rage. Excellent.
First, though, Rafe must get rid of Ventnor’s men.
They were big, uncouth-looking fellows, the sort Rafe would expect Ventnor to use; former soldiers, probably, who lacked property, a trade, and a conscience. Thanks to ruffians like these, Ventnor could conduct his dirty deeds, while keeping his soft white hands spotless. The pair had been watching the two ladies, but as Rafe bore down on them, they turned to stare at him, eyes wide, spines straight.
“It’s Luxborough,” he heard the bearded one hiss, as they exchanged panicked looks. “They say he…”
The words trailed off before Rafe had the pleasure of hearing which of the delightful rumors the man had chosen to share.
A glance over his shoulder revealed that Miss Knight and Miss Larke had made it out the door and were climbing into the waiting barouche. Ventnor’s men dropped their tankards and began to rise. Rafe pressed his hands to their shoulders, and they sank back down in their seats.
Rafe would have preferred not to have been cursed with title, scars, and outlandish rumors, but he had to admit, they had their benefits. People tended to become conveniently docile in his presence. When they weren’t trying to run away, that is.
“Lord…Lord Luxborough,” the bearded one said with a gulp.
“In the flesh,” Rafe agreed. “Or what’s left of it.”
He hauled a chair from a neighboring table and dropped into it. With a jerk of his chin toward the bar, he had the barkeeper pouring a round of drinks.
“’Scuse us, m’lord,” the other one said, “but we hafta— You see, that lady…”
“Miss Helen Knight, you mean?”
“Thass the one. Lord Ventnor told us to keep an eye on her.”
“And what an excellent job you have done. But I’ll take it from here. As per my own arrangements with Lord Ventnor.”
When the server set down the fresh drinks, the men eyed the tankards as if they were poisoned, and then, once more, the bearded one spoke.
“I don’t want to argue, my lord.”
“But you will anyway.”
“Just that Lord Ventnor didn’t tell us you was coming.”
Rafe nudged a tankard toward the man. “I was not aware that Lord Ventnor or I were required to apprise you of our movements.”
“But Miss Knight—”
“Is on her way to Vindale Court, residence of Mr. Larke and his family. Did you intend to follow her there? Have you obtained an invitation? Hmm? Lady Belinda Larke, earl’s daughter and famed society hostess, just happened to add you to her guest list, did she?”
“I s’pose you have an invitation,” the man grumbled.
“I don’t need one. I am welcome everywhere.”
“Because you’re an earl, I s’pose.”
“No. Because of my good looks, charm, and cheerful disposition.”
The two men exchanged another look. Rafe didn’t want to be here, not in this blasted coaching inn, nor staying at Mr. Larke’s house, nor anywhere else that involved spending time with all these people and their incessant talking. He didn’t want to commit fraud, or play tricks on Miss Thea Knight, or jump through hoops to get the money from his mother’s trust. But he did want to do something useful with his plants—and the devil knew he was good for little else—and if this was the price he had to pay, he might as well take his entertainment where he could.
Miss Larke’s barouche was long gone by now, and habit had Ventnor’s men curling their hands around their tankards. Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out the two papers there: One was the marriage license prepared by the bishop, allowing Rafe to marry Helen Knight, and the other was Rafe’s note telling Ventnor he had done just that. A trifle premature, as the marriage had yet to take place—or even the proposal—but that was a small matter. Sometime tomorrow, he would invite Thea Knight for a walk in the rose garden or some such thing, call her “Helen,” and invite her to be his wife. If she married him using a false name, the marriage would not be valid, but she—the scheming, social-climbing outcast, whose attempt to trap Percy Russell into marriage had failed so spectacularly three years earlier—would see another opportunity to catch herself a nobleman and rush to agree. And once the trustees had released the ten thousand pounds, Rafe would “discover” his wife was not who she said she was, feign shock, and send her on her way.
Rafe returned the license to his pocket and dropped the letter onto the table, along with several coins. “Return to London immediately, and deliver that note to Lord Ventnor.”
They exchanged another look. “But Lord Ventnor told us to wait and watch if Miss Knight left.”
“And I am telling you there is no need.” Rafe patted the note and stood. “Miss Knight does not know it yet, but when she leaves Vindale Court, she will leave with me.”
The sun was hovering over the pink horizon when Arabella’s barouche turned between the towering hedges marking the entrance to Vindale Court. At Thea’s request, they had made the trip with the hood down. The brim of her bonnet prevented her from properly admiring the scenery or feeling the breeze on her face, but she enjoyed the fresh summer evening nonetheless. They would not be expected at dinner tonight, Arabella had said, and Thea, tired from her journey and all the excitement, was relieved she would spend the evening alone in her room with a hot bath and a supper tray. She had no interest in talking to anyone other than Arabella tonight.
Well, she did have questions for one other person, perhaps.
“But what on earth could the earl have meant, saying he is here for me?” Thea wondered out loud, for approximately the twenty-seventh time.
And for approximately the twenty-seventh time, Arabella replied, “I daresay he will tell us when it suits him.”
“I deeply resent that we must follow his schedule.”