Page 9 of The Rules of Matrimony
Could he really marry someone? No, he hadn’t the taste for it—nor, clearly, the aptitude. His friends had been a lucky few to have found love, but the odds were against him. He’d incur misery. “Never mind, Mama. I will think of another way to get back into Father’s graces. You will be relieved to know, it will not consist of ruining some poor debutante’s life by an engagement to the hopeless Lord Reynolds. And it certainly won’t include Miss Foster.”
“But, Ian—”
Ian cut her off by reaching over and patting her arm. “There, there. Distract yourself by matching up another unsuspecting fool.” He shivered. He had almost been foolish enough to leg-shackle himself. He was in a real dilemma, no doubt. How could he make a difference in Society without his inheritance and position of influence? His father might not care a whit about Ian’s ideas, but after Fatherdied, Ian would take his place in Parliament. Ian couldn’t let his pride ruin his opportunities to make a wave of change in the world. It was his dream. His passion. People—good people—needed their voices heard. There had to be another way out.
He just couldn’t think of it.
Mama held out one of her letters before he could step away. “Read this before you decide on anything.”
He frowned and accepted the missive. The familiar seal of Lord Felcroft was already broken from his mother’s previous reading. Their good family friend could have nothing to say that would sway him on the subject. He scanned the letter with little patience. “Congratulations on the upcoming nuptials of your son, Lord Reynolds.” Anger seethed from his chest, and he shoved the paper back into his mother’s hands. “How did Father get this out already?”
“I think you ought to keep reading.”
He eyed her sideways and reluctantly took the paper back. “The nameMiss Amie Tyleris on everyone’s lips. We look forward to an introduction!” It was signed by Lady Felcroft—a woman he had known all his life to be upstanding and sincere. She was not in the business of passing on random gossip. “Who is Amie Tyler?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I have never heard the name in my life. Why would Lady Felcroft think I am marrying a Miss Amie Tyler?”
“That is a question you need to find out for yourself.” His mother handed him a second letter. One from his best friend, Paul. “The messenger brought it here when they discovered you were not at your townhome. It must be urgent.”
He took it and tore into the letter.
I heard the most outlandish rumor of your engagement. I knew at once it could not be true. Let me know if you need my assistance in rectifying it.
Paul was the best barrister Ian knew, and Paul’s skills had been useful on more than one occasion. Surely Ian did not need his help absolving a mere rumor.
“Of all the ridiculous notions,” Ian said. “Maybe if we ignore it, it’ll go away.”
Mama shook her head. “You cannot have gossip spreading like this. If you don’t put an end to it straight away, you will have to do right by her.”
He coughed. “Marry a stranger? This is worse than one ofyourmatches.”
“The sooner you fix this, the better. These things have a way of getting out of hand. Hire an investigator and find her. You and your father could use a few days apart. Just be back by next Friday when you are to meet with Miss Foster for dinner.”
“Heaven forbid I miss it,” he grumbled.
“Do not make light of your father’s stubbornness,” Mama reminded him. “He means well, bless his soul, but hewillfollow through.”
“Don’t I know it. Try not to worry overmuch. I will think of something.” He leaned over and kissed his mother on the cheek. “But you may pray for my sanity. It might not be intact upon my return.”
Not a half hour later, Ian was riding toward the Western side of London to the office of a private investigator he had used a time or two before by the name of Harry Boyles. He wasn’t much to look at, with his wrinkled clothes and poor hygiene, but he was a thorough worker. His office was just up from Fleet Street. Ian turned his horse to cut through a side block and nearly cursed under his breath. A sizable crowd filled the road, preventing him from riding any farther.
He should have turned around, but a woman’s scream stopped him. A wave of curiosity mixed with urgency persuaded him to direct his horse closer. A grizzly man outside the butcher’s shop gripped a young woman roughly by her arms. She fought against him, but byher gaunt figure and young age, no more than sixteen or seventeen, there was no way she would win against the much larger man.
“Someone find a constable!” the rough man shouted. By his blood-stained canvas apron, Ian judged him to be the owner of the meat establishment. “I’ve caught a thief!”
More shopkeepers piled onto the street, and bystanders edged closer to the scene.
“What did she take, Mr. Allen?” an older woman demanded from the back.
Mr. Allen dragged the woman forward. “Why, she tried to take off with me cart of meat. It’s worth fifty pounds and not a farthing less!”
“Fifty—!” Ian sputtered under his breath. That was enough to serve as a death sentence. He brought his horse to a stop, quickly swinging his leg over the side. This wasn’t his day.
“He’s wrong!” the young thief cried. “I was ’ardly takin’ enough for me and my family. I swear it!”
“A liar and a thief,” Mr. Allen said. “I’ll see you hang for this!”
