The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,4

down to his prized greys—Lawrence had rented this hack to keep up appearances.

Mr. York was one of the most powerful MPs in the House of Commons. Mrs. York was bosom friends with a patroness of Almack’s. They had wealth, status, everything they could ever want—except a title.

After the wedding, the Yorks’ daughter would be a duchess, their grandson a future duke. To them, such a jaw-dropping coup would be more than worth any dowry required.

For him it meant a new leaf. The Earl of Southerby was seeking partners for an investment opportunity with very attractive interest rates—if Lawrence came up with his portion before the earl quit London at the end of the season. It was not a flashy wager, like the sort his father had made at his gentlemen’s clubs, but the steady interest and future profit would provide a strong foundation for years to come.

To Lawrence, marriage to respectable Miss York meant far more than financial stability. His children could be children, without fear of mockery or poverty. It would give his sons and daughters the chance—no, the right—to be happy.

Everyone deserved as much, including his new bride. Lawrence could not afford to woo Miss York for an entire season, but he could give her a week or two to get to know him before the betrothal.

He reached for the framed canvas on the seat opposite. “Once the traffic clears, I’ll alight at the last house. I shan’t be more than half an hour.”

But the carriages crowding the Yorks’ side of the square did not move. The queue appeared to be idly awaiting passengers. One of the Yorks’ neighbors must be hosting a tea. He grimaced.

Lawrence hated tea. He would rather drink water from the Thames.

“Stop here.” He reached for the door. “Find your way to the front of the queue so I know where to find you when I return.”

The driver nodded and allowed the curtain to fall closed.

Despite residing on opposite sides of Grosvenor Square, this was Lawrence’s first call at the York residence. The warm red brick and painted white columns of the impeccable terrace house were bright and clean. Every window glistened in the sunlight, reflecting the azure spring sky or the trim green grass in the square.

Jaw clenched, he strode down the pavement toward their front walk as elegantly as one could with a heavy, brown-paper-wrapped, framed painting clutched beneath one’s arm.

Lawrence could have brought his last remaining footman along to carry the painting, but he hoped a show of personal effort would add an extra touch of romance to his unusual gift. It was not what he would have picked, but the important thing was giving his future betrothed something she liked.

The finality of marriage prickled his skin with equal parts nervousness and excitement. A fortnight from now, when the contract was signed, he and Miss York would be saddled with each other. His palms felt clammy. Was it foolish to hope their union might be a pleasant one? He drew himself taller.

As with all duties, one did as one must.

The door was answered as soon as he touched the knocker. Lawrence presented his card at once.

“Your Grace,” said the butler. “Do come in. Shall I ring for someone to take your package?”

“I’ll deliver it.” Lawrence stepped over the threshold to wait for his hosts.

He and Mr. York had met in the House of Commons and enjoyed spirited debates for most of a decade. Last year, after the premature death of Lawrence’s father, he had moved from the House of Commons to the House of Lords. A partnership with Mr. York would ensure vital allies across the two Houses.

All he had to do was remain sparklingly unobjectionable until the banns were read. Once Miss York married him, her dowry would save the dukedom and secure a better future for his family and his tenants.

The plan had to work. It was Lawrence’s only shot.

Mrs. York bounded up to him, her hands clasped to her chest as if physically restraining a squeal of excitement. “Your Grace, such a pleasure, I do say!”

The unmistakable sound of female voices trickled from an open door halfway down the corridor straight ahead.

Lawrence’s skin went cold. This was supposed to be a private meeting. He hated surprises and was inept at impromptu conversations. He excelled in Parliament because he prepared his speeches in advance—just as he had done for today’s visit with Miss York and her parents.

Interacting with an unexpected crowd would ensure he made a hash out of