Page 84 of This Earl of Mine

“That sounds about right,” Benedict said scornfully. “It’s just like him to look for the easy way out. Heaven forbid he should actually work for a living. Let’s hope the ladies of Boston are as discerning as their English counterparts.”

“Since we’re exchanging news,” he continued, “instead of doing debauched things to one another, I should report that Seb and Alex tracked down Tom Johnstone. He’s currently in debtor’s prison, awaiting trial. Seb says he’s writing a book about his adventures.”

“And what about O’Meara?”

“He hasn’t been charged with anything yet. Lord Castlereagh’s looking into reports that members of the Bonaparte family transferred substantial funds to London over the past few weeks, but I’m not sure they can link itto O’Meara. Still, with Johnstone’s ship and Fulton’s plans now back with the Admiralty, I think it’s safe to say that this particular threat has been eliminated.”

“I think we make an excellent team,” she said smugly.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Chapter 46.

The wedding of Juliet Caversteed and Simeon Pettigrew was, according to all who attended, the most lavish event of the season. The groom took the unusual step of reading aloud a sonnet he’d composed in honor of the celebration, but apart from that mystifying anomaly—during which one slightly deaf old dowager was heard to remark querulously, “I thought poems were supposed torhyme?”—it all went off without a hitch.

The rings had been specially commissioned from rose-colored gold mined from the groom’s very own Welsh gold mine, and the bride was acknowledged to be as beautiful as a fairy-tale princess in a silver lame gown that had been modelled on the one worn by Princess Charlotte at her own wedding some weeks before. The bride’s mother was resplendent in a ridiculously impractical hat by Madame Cerise, which boasted no fewer than three different artificial fruits and obscured the view of everyone unfortunate enough to be seated in the three rows directly behind her.

Georgie and Benedict’s own wedding, a few weekslater, was a far less fussy, more intimate affair. It took place on a glorious summer day. White cow parsley and pale-green grasses bobbed like froth in the hedgerows, butterflies chased one another in lazy helixes, and fat pigeons cooed contentedly in the trees. Only a handful of selected guests weaved through the avenue of ancient yews to the crooked porch and crowded into the tiny Norman church at Little Gidding, but the atmosphere was one of quiet celebration.

Georgie wore a simple cream dress with a small amount of lace at the bodice and sleeves, and carried a posy of peonies and sweet peas. Juliet was beautiful as matron of honor in pale-blue sarcenet, and their mother had come prepared, clutching her handkerchief and smelling salts in the expectation of happy tears and possible faintness.

Benedict, in a dark coat of navy superfine and buff breeches, was accompanied by his two groomsmen, Alex and Seb, both of whom looked exceedingly handsome in pale grey. Alex had, apparently, ruined no fewer than six cravats before he achieved the perfect knot.

When Georgie walked down the aisle on Pieter’s arm and got her first glance of Benedict waiting for her at the altar, her breath caught in her throat. The proud expression on his face made her heart swell with love.

The service proceeded with all due solemnity. Georgie, comparing this wedding to her first one, in the dark and gloomy bowels of Newgate, shook her head in wonder. Who would have thought that such an inauspicious beginning would end so happily? This time, there was no hint of uncertainty or trepidation in her breast. She meant every word of her vows, and she was equally confident that Benedict meant his.

She couldn’t wait to start their life together. Benedict was a far cry from some idealized courtly lover, but life with him would never be dull. It would be fun, irreverent,playful, breathless, and passionate. It would be the best adventure ever.

There was a moment of levity when the vicar came to the part in the ceremony where Benedict promised to endow Georgie with “all his worldly goods.” Benedict rolled his eyes and sent her a droll glance, and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself from laughing out loud. And when the vicar pronounced them “man and wife,” Benedict swept her into his arms and kissed her so soundly that she dropped her wildflower bouquet. Mother resorted to her smelling salts.

Now, three blissful weeks later, Georgie sat in her new office in the town house she and Benedict had rented a stone’s throw from Grosvenor Square, and gazed at her handsome husband across the large leather-topped desk.

“What is it?” Benedict asked. “You said you wanted to see me. Is anything the matter?”

She smiled at his concern. “No, nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I had Edmund Shaw drop these off a short while ago.” She tapped her fingers on the two folded vellum pages in front of her. “It’s just a small business matter we need to attend to.” She unfolded the first document and handed it to him. He took it reluctantly, and she watched in amusement as his brows lifted.

“This is the contract I signed in Newgate.”

“It is, indeed. Would you mind throwing it on the fire, please?”

He frowned at her, uncomprehending. “What? Why?”

She broke the red wax seal on the second document. “I have a different agreement for you to sign.”

He let out a good-natured groan. “Not another one. You’re obsessed, woman. What is it this time? Names for our future children?”

“No.” She rounded the desk, took the paper from his hands, and carefully ripped it in half. Then in half again.And then she threw it on the fire. The dry vellum burned cheerfully in the grate.

Benedict looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. She waved at the paper on the desk. “That new document gives us both equal access to my fortune. With sensible stipulations, of course. Any withdrawal of over five thousand pounds will require joint signatures, for example.”

He seemed to be a little dazed. “That’s—very sensible.”

“All of our children, no matter what gender, will inherit an equal portion of the estate when we die.”

He seemed to be getting over his shock. “How very modern of you, Mrs. Wylde. That sounds alarmingly progressive.” He frowned. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m not interested in your money.”

“I know. But it makes me happy. And I trust you. With my heart. With my happiness. It’s stupid if I don’t trust you with my money as well.”

---