Malcolm peered at the clerk with curiosity. “Did he ruffle your hair again, Pruitt?”
The man rolled his eyes and tried to smooth his hair. “Yes, he did, sir, the dirty blighter. You know he could only be five years older than me at most, but he treats me like a child.”
“It’s just his way,” Malcolm assured him absently, not particularly caring. The clerks, while diligent in their efforts, were certainly not operatives, and he was weary of dealing with them. “Send Rook in, I’ll deal with him quickly.”
The clerk looked as though he doubted it, but he shrugged and disappeared.
Malcolm rose and moved to the sideboard in his office, faintly registering in his mind to be grateful that he was the only one in the building to have just the one desk in his office. The others had two, as there was always the intention to bring more members into the League and then the operatives would double up in offices. Malcolm, as Cap, however, had been senior enough and experienced enough that there was never a concern about that.
He had more space to think, to move, and more privacy to see to his own matters. No one else shared at this point, as there were only four of them, but the added space was truly something he appreciated. When he wished to pace, as he did now, he could do so.
“Were you going to drink that brandy, sir, or just stare at it in passing?”
Malcolm glared at Rook, who sauntered through the door and flopped himself into a chair. “I have quite a lot on my mind, Rook.”
Rook snorted and gestured for a glass. “I’d ask if it was about our little friends, but I believe it is more likely to be your little friend than anything remotely French.”
Malcolm’s glare darkened into an all-out glower as he moved back to his desk, propping his feet up on it in an uncharacteristic lapse of propriety.
“That look,” Rook laughed, pointing at him, “tells me I am correct. We are, what, a week from the wedding?”
“Yes, just,” Malcolm grunted, sipping his brandy slowly. “You are lucky to still be invited, you know, after your performance at Marlowe’s.”
“Please.” Rook snorted and dropped his head back. “You know full well that Rogue and I staged that whole thing, and if I hadn’t done it, you might still be waffling about what to do with Beth.”
Malcolm pointed a very steady finger at him. “You will refrain from speaking of her in that familiar fashion until either she or I have given you permission to do so. Is that clear? She is Miss Owens for another week, and Lady Montgomery thereafter.”
Rook held his hands up in surrender, still keeping his head back. “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. So sorry, my lord.”
If he were not such a capable operative, Malcolm would have been rather inclined to shoot the impertinent whelp. But alas, he was very good and had the potential to be one of their best.
As it turned out, Rogue and Rook had improvised that rather convincing fight to distract Mr. Herschel, who had never had any particular interests or dealings with the covert operations of his country, but who had suddenly begun asking too many questions.
How he had thought to ask Rogue, of all people, was astonishing. There was no reason for him to think that Lord Wharton cared about politics or would speculate on the unsettled French in their new government. Rogue had signaled to Rook, who had needed no other invitation, and the fight commenced as Malcolm and the others had seen it.
The distraction of their fight worked to interrupt Mr. Herschel’s questions, but it was impossible to say what the old fool thought of it. The most bewildering part was knowing that Herschel had asked. He had never been a suspect before, but now…
Well, now he had two very small and almost invisible street urchins tailing his every move.
Once the Marlowes’ dinner party had concluded, Rogue had gone back to his dockside alias, and Rook and Gent had taken up investigating their new suspect, searching to find confirmation that any of them had been compromised.
As yet, they had no proof of anything. Even so, extra guards had been placed at Rogue’s estate, Whitleigh, and Amelia had been made aware of the potential danger. Eagle had removed himself to the estate, as well, to guard his daughter. Amelia had been none too pleased, as she felt her father’s presence was rather like a nanny sent to tend her, but nobody had taken her complaints into consideration. There were far more important matters at hand.
So, it was a most inconvenient time to be thinking of a wedding, really.
But once the deed was done, he could deposit Beth at Knightsgate with the children, be assured of their care, and focus on the dangers at hand. There was even a possibility that he could go back into actual fieldwork once Beth was installed as a parent of sorts for his children. He’d not accepted any serious missions in years, certainly never since Caroline’s death. Once he was no longer the sole adult responsible for his children’s wellbeing, he would again be able to take up that danger. He missed fieldwork far more passionately than he’d ever imagined he would.
Plus, if the faction had infiltrated more of the London Society, they needed to address that, and cut it off before it could spread any further. He could help there when the time came.
“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”
Malcolm looked up at his comrade, the one he had known the least amount of time, but the only one at hand, and exhaled slowly. Tossing down the quill, he put his head in both hands and admitted, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Rook had the good sense to look surprised. “You? You always know what you’re doing. That’s why you’re Cap.”
Cap had been short for Captain, which was a bit obvious, given his military history before he’d inherited. With his authoritative personality and knack for giving commands, he’d earned the name again, this time with the operatives. Very few ever questioned him or his decisions, and even fewer thought they should do so. He didn’t mean to assume authority wherever he went, it just sort of happened.
Except in this case.
“I don’t this time,” Malcolm sighed, rubbing at his brow and tugging at the poor imitation of a cravat he wore. “I don’t have a damned clue.”
“But you want to marry her, right?”
He shrugged, looking away.
“You don’t?”
“I don’t want to not marry her,” Malcolm suggested weakly, hiding a wince behind his hands.
That drew a snort from his colleague. “Oh, tell her that, by all means.”
“I don’t have to tell her anything,” Malcolm snapped defensively. “She agreed to the marriage as it is, without any promise or hope of affection.”
“You can’t know what she hopes for,” Rook scoffed, crossing his ankles. “You’re a fine catch, and she’d be an idiot not to hope, no matter what she told you. And as I happen to think very highly of Miss Owens, I cannot consider her an idiot. Just marry her and stop worrying.”
Malcolm thought to scold Rook, but actually, it was fairly sound advice. “You think so?” he asked with a raised brow.
Rook nodded all too thoughtfully. “And so do you, Cap. Or you never would have thought of marrying her in the first place. Don’t over-think, just act.”
The day he started taking advice from Rook would be a cold day in hell. Even if he happened to do as he suggested. Malcolm frowned at his colleague, pretending that he did not feel marginally better for Rook’s sage words. “Tell me you didn’t come here just to advise me on my impending marriage.”
“ ‘Course not,” Rook said with a dismissive snort. “I have business.”
“Good. Start talking.”
Chapter Five
The sooner this day could be over and done with, the sooner Malcolm would be able to breathe with ease again. He was not a great fan of weddings in general, but the notion of having to endure another of his own seemed a cruel twist of irony.
Nearly three times today, he had considered the possibility of crying off, wondering if that would destroy his reputation or make any difference to his future or spare h
is soul… Anything to avoid the discomfort he now felt as he paced the small vestry waiting for his cue to proceed out to the front of the church and await his bride.
He nearly snorted despite his distress. His bride. She was going to be beautiful, he had no doubt, and he would probably feel some sort of reaction to that, as he was a man, but he refused to take any pleasure in it.
He could not.
Beth was a fine enough woman, and that opinion had only grown as he had come to know her better in the weeks following their engagement. In the interest of all honesty, he would admit that Beth had dealt with the details of the wedding and preparation for her new role far better than Caroline had done, though he would have had to work hard to find fault in Caroline as she had been then. But she had been young and desired everything to be perfect, including herself.
With the differences in this situation, that was not a problem.
Beth did not care if everything was perfect. She did not seem to care if anything was perfect at all. She had no strong opinions on the decor or fashion, the guests or the breakfast, and still smiled just as blissfully as if Malcolm were violently in love with her. But she was older than Caroline had been and did not seem to be perturbed by any of this, which initially led him to believe that she was either the most naïve person in the world, or truly not concerned about the task before her.
The more he came to know her, the more he realized that she was not naïve at all. She was actually very wise, and possibly even a better choice for a wife than he could have imagined, considering their short acquaintance.
Lily had told him in confidence that Beth had come to her to ask advice on proper decorum and managing the estate. Beth had become a kind of apprentice to Lily’s daily life and had even gone so far as to ask Granger about his tenants in the country and the sort of duties Malcolm would have towards his own. She took copious notes, and when she was not engaged in the study of her future responsibilities, she was practicing comportment and refinement with Lily as if she were back in school.
As Malcolm understood it, Lily’s governess had trained her in the more feminine arts and styles. Beth had only her schooling, without prior benefit of a governess. It therefore followed that her manners and gentility, while certainly not lacking, were less cultivated than they ought to have been.
He could not help but be impressed with her efforts, and the determination she had to be fully prepared for what awaited her. Any hesitation he’d had on her abilities as his wife and countess was quickly ebbing away. If nothing else, she would succeed out of sheer willpower.
That was not the problem.
Nor was her natural temperament.
She’d met the children a few days before, and that had been the easiest part of all. While Jane had been her usual timid self, and Archer had looked uncertain about the whole affair, Samuel and Greer had had no such reluctance. From the first gentle smile she offered, his youngest children had been taken with her and spent the entire interview telling her everything about themselves and their home at Knightsgate.
Malcolm knew how fond Beth was of children, but he could hardly have expected anyone to have the tolerance to endure the chattering of a boy of four and a girl of three for very long. Yet she had done it, without showing any signs that she would prefer to be anywhere else. She had been just as engaged with them as she had with him at every interview they’d had. Under the influence of undivided attention, the children were not inclined to keep anything private whatsoever.
Just as they were about to tell Beth all about the various hiding places in the forest behind their home, Malcolm called them to a halt. They all giggled incessantly, which painted a questionable picture of his parental authority in the presence of his future wife.
True to what he was learning was her natural form, she’d had to clamp down on her lips to avoid joining in the laughter, her dark eyes dancing as merrily as he’d seen them do at Marlowe’s.
Jane had giggled, too, and that had drawn Beth’s attention.
Malcolm had watched her in amazement as she approached his daughter, crouching down to her height and speaking softly with her, never pressing her to interact more than she allowed. Jane had given her very few answers, but she had smiled eventually, and that seemed a miracle. His bright and vivacious daughter had disappeared with her mother’s death, and only a somber, shy girl remained in her place. She still smiled for him, but rarely anyone else.
If he hadn’t already been engaged to marry Beth Owens, he would have proposed again on the spot, just for that moment.
Archer still was not convinced, but he informed Malcolm only last night that he liked her well enough, and he supposed his father might as well marry her. High praise, indeed.
Now, pacing as he was, Malcolm fought the desire to tug at his too-starched cravat, feeling as though it were strangling him. His palms were sweating, his fingers itched, and he would have given half his fortune for a glass of water to soothe his parched throat. His nerves had robbed him of sleep last night, and they were keeping him company now.
He could not sit still, he could not currently recall what their plans were for after the ceremony, and he found himself perspiring even though it was a cool day. He doubted he had been this nervous for his first wedding, but he had been so absorbed with marrying the woman of his dreams that there’d been no room for anything else in his heart or his head.
Now he knew better.
Despite the offers of his colleagues, he waited in this drafty and too formal vestry alone, without a best man or chaperone. He did not need anyone else to be with him for this. No one must know of his anxieties, and no one could relieve them even if they knew. He should have been perfectly comfortable. Beth was an excellent choice as far as connections went, despite her lack of fortune. She would make a wonderful countess, once she got used to it. She was already winning over his children, and it could only improve from there.
The trouble was that, while she had succeeded in so many respects, there was one area in which she utterly failed.
Beth Owens was most certainly not someone that it would be impossible to fall in love with. What was worse was that he could almost see how he could love her, were he anyone else.
He was not admitting to feeling anything for her now. He didn’t think he would feel anything of significance in the future, either. If he had been wise, he would have chosen someone far less special and far less pleasant to look at. But that person would not have been right for his children, and he had to think of them.
He had to.
Any minute now, the rector would fetch him, and he would enter the chapel, enduring the stares of whomever they had invited. The guest list included his two oldest children, his colleagues, and Beth’s idiot parents, who seemed utterly bewildered by their daughter’s marriage, as if they had never expected her to marry at all! He could understand their confusion at her marrying an earl, given their situation, but to never marry?
It was the most absurd thing anyone could think. Beth was so perfectly the sort of woman one married. It was inconceivable that she was not already married, she was so perfect for the state. She ought to have been married long before this.
But in just a few moments, she would marry him.
He straightened his coat and forced himself to exhale slowly. He would marry her. It was the right thing to do. And eventually, the pain of this would fade.
The door opened, and the rector appeared with a warm smile that Malcolm could not return. “All right, my lord. It is time.”
Beth’s wedding day was hardly shaping up to be as she had always dreamed. For one thing, her husband to be was a right sight grander than she had ever imagined. For another, only three members of her family were in attendance, and she was ever so grateful. The rest of her family were completely overwhelming, and there would have been all manner of chaos, a few fights, and no end of criticism from her sisters and sisters-in-law about how she should look, or how one should act once they were married.
But not just any husband: Malcolm Arthur Colerain, Earl of Montgomery. Oh, la! His given name was Malcolm, which she had not known, and she suddenly thought it the grandest name in the world. She could not think of him with any other name now, and her heart warmed more at every thought of it.
The wedding had proceeded without any sort of fuss, which was what she’d wanted. They had not married in the grandest of cathedrals, just Malcolm’s usual parish, and the number of guests had been small for the capacity of the church itself. This was to be expected, as she knew almost nobody in London, and her husband was a reserved man with limited friends and no family other than his own.
She had not minded. She had been involved in several large weddings and a couple of small ones, and the smaller ones had always been a more pleasant experience.
It meant more than anything else that Michael, her absolutely favorite brother, had come for her wedding. He hadn’t even said a word about her not knowing her husband for very long. He’d given her a brotherly kiss and said, “I trust you know what you are doing,” and then stepped over to become acquainted with her husband. Just before the service this morning, he’d officially given her his approval of the match.
Pretentious fool! As if she would have left off marrying just because Michael thought she should. But then, Michael really was no fool. He knew very well that she would have married Malcolm anyway, so it was impossible to say if he truly approved or if he were just telling her so.
Either way, she thought with a sigh as she sat at her wedding breakfast, looking around at those who had come to celebrate, it was a relief to have it all done. Her gown was her own this time, thanks in part to the generous trousseau that Malcolm had given her, and it was of far better quality than anything she had owned before this. But, as Lily reminded her often, she was a countess now, and she must accustom herself to the finery associated with such a position. She had decided that she could adjust to it very well. And with the way Malcolm had looked at her when he’d seen her, she thought the expense was rather worth it. She could get used to her husband looking at her in such a way.
A Tip of the Cap (London League, Book 3) Page 6
