court Betsy. Surely his cousin didn’t think that he could compete with a future duke. Grégoire could be considered the heir to a marquess—but only if Jeremy died without a son.
At times that seemed eminently possible. Grégoire might even be counting on it.
“A pleasure and a surprise,” the marquess said to Betsy. “I didn’t know that my son was keeping company with a young lady, to call a spade a spade.”
Grégoire snorted. “Your spade is misplaced, Uncle. Lady Boadicea is all but promised to the future Duke of Eversley.”
“I am not keeping company with Lord Jeremy,” Betsy confirmed.
“Ah well,” his father said. “It’d take a thief catcher to tie the boy down.”
“I’m no longer a boy,” Jeremy said.
His father was grinning at Betsy. Her charm was warm and cheery, albeit fake. His father’s was laid on a foundation of ancient silver, an ancient title, and rows and rows of tenant farmers.
The marquess actually paid his farmers, which was more than his great-grandfather had done. Jeremy had never forgotten being told by a wizened old relative that the new way of doing things—which included paying a wage—was bollocks.
The marquess moved to Betsy’s other side, leaning slightly on a silver-topped cane. As he crossed before them, the wind blew a whiff of cigars and starched linen into Jeremy’s face that reminded him of childhood.
“Where are we going?” the marquess asked.
“St. Bartholomew’s,” Betsy replied.
“An unusual destination for a member of our family,” Jeremy’s father observed. “I remembered on the way here that my old friend Samuel Finney hails from Wilmslow. He paints miniatures. Has a terrible squint. Last I heard, he’d become a justice of the peace. He exhibited a miniature of Queen Charlotte, and the money allowed him to pay off all his family debts. How far is this church?”
“At the end of the street,” Betsy said.
“It is too cold to walk even that far,” Grégoire stated. “It’s positively barbaric the way the wind cuts through my cloak.” He waved his stick at the coachman. “I will wait for you.”
“Just how interested are you in seeing the church, Lady Boadicea?” the marquess asked.
A groom jumped down and opened the carriage door. “Grégoire is right; it’s too cold for walking,” Jeremy said, drawing Betsy toward the vehicle.
Once they were all seated, in the sudden silence that follows an escape from a storm, the marquess asked, “Lady Boadicea, might we change your mind as regards the church? I’m afraid the building will be bitterly cold.”
“I will admit to feeling chilled,” Betsy said, her teeth chattering. “Perhaps we should join the Duchess of Eversley, Lord Greywick, and my aunt, Lady Knowe, at the auction house instead of continuing to the church.”
Jeremy wrapped an arm around her shoulder and then, as his father looked surprised: “We are merely friends. As Grégoire said, Lady Boadicea is almost betrothed to Greywick. In fact, the duchess treats her as a daughter-in-law.”
“Almost,” his father repeated. He smiled, and a flame lit somewhere in the region of Jeremy’s frozen heart. He used to love that smile: It appeared rarely, and as a boy, Jeremy would do anything for it. Learn three Latin declensions before bedtime, bring home top marks in history, argue his instructors to a standstill . . . knowing his father was doing the same in Lords.
“I don’t mean this unkindly, but I doubt very much that the Duke of Lindow would embrace my cousin as a son-in-law,” Grégoire said in his most waspish manner.
The marquess leveled a tremendous scowl. “What did you mean by that?”
“Since Lady Boadicea has, as we established, very nearly reached an understanding with Lord Greywick, I can say freely, amongst the family as it were, that Jeremy’s nerves are not at their best.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” the marquess thundered.
“I had an unfortunate episode after some fireworks exploded in Vauxhall Gardens,” Jeremy said. It wasn’t how he would have chosen to inform his father, let alone Betsy. “I lost sensibility for some time.”
Betsy said nothing, but shifted closer to him, her side pressing against his.
“The details are unpleasant,” Grégoire agreed with a sniff. “I wouldn’t wish you to have misplaced hopes, Uncle. Nothing has leaked to the stationers about Jeremy’s illness, but one can’t count on that.”
The marquess regarded Grégoire with withering scorn and pointedly gave him his shoulder. “I suggest that you visit St. Bartholomew’s on a summer day, Lady Boadicea. My coachman knows something about these parts. Earlier, he suggested we retire to the Honeypot for hot drinks. Best