Page 67 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Of course, breaking the news of their latest decision to Meg’s parents took a certain degree of tact. As Meg had foreseen, the predictable reason—namely that she was already expecting his child—immediately leapt to her parents’ minds, but without actually addressing that point, they managed to allay such suspicions. Or so Drago hoped.
“In truth,” he confessed, “I’ve already endured more than I can take of the ton’s avid interest. Every ball is becoming a trial—draining my reserves of politeness, let alone my temper—and this way, we can marry without any unfortunate incident erupting.”
“I can certainly understand that.” Demon Cynster snorted. “I still remember the weeks before our wedding—I always thought my brother did the right thing in eloping. And being a duke with Meg your prospective duchess, it’ll only be worse for you both.” His shrewd blue gaze rested on his daughter’s face. “And as you’re both of one mind on the matter, I can’t see any reason not to roll forward to the wedding without further ado.” He arched his bushy brows at his wife. “What say you, my dear?”
Felicity—Flick, as she’d instructed Drago to call her now that he was set to join the family—had narrowed her eyes, but not, thankfully, on either him or Meg. Rather, she seemed to be considering some distant vista. Then her gaze refocused on Drago and Meg where they sat side by side on the drawing room sofa. “As far as I recall, no mention has yet been made of the wedding. No date alluded to, even within the families.”
Drago nodded. “To my knowledge, that’s correct.”
Flick smiled in delighted anticipation. “In that case, my dears, I see no reason at all that you shouldn’t marry as you’ve suggested, next Saturday. Indeed”—she nodded sagely—“the degree of excitement the announcement will engender will prove your point. It will be a frenzy, but at least this way, it’ll all be over within a week. And trust me, it would have been a frenzy regardless of when the wedding took place. This way, the nonsense will be done with and the unavoidable disruption to everyone minimized.”
Drago was so relieved to have that agreed to so readily that he smiled equally delightedly and accepted Flick’s invitation to remain for a celebratory lunch.
* * *
After lunch,Drago descended the steps of the Cynster house and walked to where one of Demon’s grooms had just drawn Drago’s grays to a halt, having driven his curricle around from the mews.
Smiling appreciatively, the groom climbed down and handed over the ribbons.
“Thank you.” Drago accepted the reins and stepped into the curricle.
The groom nodded at the horses. “They’re a bang-up pair, Your Grace.” The groom grinned. “Has the master seen them yet?”
Drago thought, then shook his head. “I don’t believe so—not unless he’s given to peering out of the windows at the street.”
“Trust me.” The groom saluted. “If he hasn’t said anything, he hasn’t seen them.”
Drago grinned back, tipped his whip to the groom, and set the grays trotting.
He’d intended to head home and speak with his mother and brother about the now-settled date for the wedding, but the pealing of the city’s bells signaling that it was two o’clock reminded him that, assuming that his mother had stayed in for luncheon, she would almost certainly be enjoying her postprandial nap.
That meant he had an hour to kill before he would be admitted to her presence.
“And there are others I need to warn about my impending nuptials.”
On reaching the junction with Piccadilly, Drago turned his horses to the left and proceeded toward Lincoln’s Inn.
Twenty minutes later, having navigated the traffic through Trafalgar Square and along the Strand, he left his horses with a lad in the Fields—no longer fields but a square surrounded by tall narrow residences—and walked beneath the archway and into the courtyard of the ancient inn, now home to the chambers of England’s finest solicitors.
Much like Oxford colleges, each building around the central courtyard boasted staircases with rooms—known as chambers—giving off to either side of several landings. The Helmsford solicitors, Crawthorne and Quartermaine, occupied one of the prize chambers on the first floor.
After climbing the stairs, Drago walked into the outer office. Before he’d closed the door behind him, the senior clerk had leapt to his feet.
“Your Grace.” The clerk bowed low. “I’ll inquire if Mr. Crawthorne can see you.”
“Thank you, Fitts.” Drago waved his permission, and the clerk whirled and hurried down a narrow corridor to the door at the end.
Drago paused before the wooden railing that separated the small waiting area with its well-padded armchairs from the raised desks behind which the clerks toiled.
In less than a minute, Fitts returned. “Mr. Crawthorne is available to see you, Your Grace.” Fitts opened the gate in the railing and bowed Drago through.
With a nod for the man, Drago walked down the corridor and entered Crawthorne’s inner sanctum, a pleasant room sporting a bow window that overlooked the courtyard with its leafy trees, clipped lawns, and ferociously tidy paths.
“Your Grace!” Crawthorne stood behind his desk, smiling in welcome.
Drago nodded and met Thomas Hayden’s gaze as Thomas dutifully closed the door.
As Crawthorne’s junior partner, Thomas had a desk tucked in one corner of the room.
