When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,105
In every way, Parker looked the part of the loyal officer, but would even a loyal officer see his father-in-law hung for treason?
“Why such haste regarding the vows, my lord? Do you expect me to marry in the rag you found me in?”
He turned his right side to the mirror, adopting the contrapposto stance of heroic statues from time immemorial.
“That is a worthy point. One cannot marry a duchess in rags without causing at least the priest to raise an eyebrow. Something ready-made will have to do. I’ll find you a modiste who can alter a completed article to fit you and we will still sit down to supper as man and wife.”
Such urgency—to protect her? And yet, Parker did not offer to send for the London modiste whom Matilda favored.
He shifted, putting the other foot forward.
“I’d like my father to be present at the ceremony,” she said. “Papa is doubtless worried about me, and he’ll be endlessly grateful to you for bringing me to safety.” If safety this was.
Parker paused in his preening. “My dear, I sense that you do not grasp how truly precarious your position is. If Wakefield should be arrested, you are the very first party the Crown will suspect of conspiring with him. Distance from your dear father is the wisest course for you. Unless we are well and truly wed, I will have no choice but to reveal that you were translating highly sensitive stolen correspondence, and that you dodged off for parts unknown rather than entrust me with the information you found.”
Assuming Parker had read the same information, what had he done with it? How did he know that the document had been stolen rather than entrusted to the Crown’s courier?
“What will happen to your career when it becomes known that you have married the daughter of an accused spy—assuming Papa wasn’t in possession of that missive for lawful reasons?”
And who would accuse Papa if Parker did not? The question chilled her, bringing her whirling thoughts to a stop. Parker and Parker alone apparently knew the details of this situation—Parker, Matilda, and Papa.
“I will have married an innocent, as far as the world knows. I will shelter her from any hint of suspicion.”
“I am innocent,” Matilda said. Something Parker should have been desperate to believe about his intended. “I was looking for a damned pair of scissors when I found that letter, and I’m still not entirely sure what it said. Neither do I know whether that missive was in Papa’s possession or secreted among his personal effects by another intended to incriminate him.”
Another who now sought to marry her?
“Temper, my dear.” Parker strode for the door. “I’ll see that a suitable dress is delivered within the hour and send a maid to do something with your hair. If we are to allay inconvenient suspicions, the clergyman must be greeted by a radiant bride, and your travels have taken an unfortunate toll in that regard. We shall contrive, nonetheless, and you will soon be safely established as my lawfully wedded wife.”
No, I will not. The Archbishop of Canterbury could not force her to speak her vows with Parker, not until she knew what game he played.
“Find me a dress, Atticus, and send me a maid. Radiance will require some effort.”
He bowed and withdrew, clearly pleased with himself, while Matilda was increasingly certain the colonel was not a loyal soldier and not at all interested in safeguarding Thomas Wakefield’s future—or her own.
Chapter Eighteen
“I got no farther than you did,” Carlu said, studying the winter ale served by the Brightwell village inn. “The manor house staff is either loyal or telling the truth: They know nothing of a woman fitting your daughter’s description. Had it from the butler himself, and his version of events was repeated by the stable lads and farmer Jingle.”
Carlu had become a dark angel of conscience, never referring to Matilda as anything save “your daughter.” Thomas Wakefield hoped she’d still claim him as her father, if this mess ever sorted itself out.
“So she’s not here, never was here,” Wakefield said, “and we have no idea where the colonel might be either.”
Petras pulled up a chair. To him, a Muscovite born and bred, England had no winter worth the name.
“Some ale, sir?” a serving maid asked.
“Please.” He smiled as only a young man convinced of his own charm can smile. The maid blushed—all the maids blushed for Petras, and Carlu kicked him under the table.