“I am not in love with Beatrice,” he roared before clearing his throat and adding calmly, “That is the furthest thing from the truth. We are friends.”
“Friends,” Ben repeated. He nodded. “Oh, yes.”
Kit pursed his lips, nodding, too. “Certainly. Friends.”
He leveled them both with a ball-crushing stare. “We have an affinity for each other. What is so strange about that?”
“Nothing,” Ben said. He took a long drink of gin, his face contorting as he struggled not to show his amusement.
Will blew out a breath, rolling his eyes at their juvenile attitudes. “I’m glad you think nothing is wrong with it. Surely I have explained to you many times over that the best thing a man can do is marry someone who is in accord with all of one’s ideals.”
“And you and Beatrice are in accord?” Kit queried idly.
“We’ve come to a good understanding,” he informed, thinking of her fearsome determination and her playful look during their boxing lesson. “And we actually do share many ideals.”
“Such as?” Ben prompted, draping his arm against the bench back.
“The rights of humanity. The need to improve the lives of all those around us, to help people, to support them, to do good work for the country.”
Ben groaned. “You two are going to be absolutely insufferable together. You will both be a walking cause.”
He considered this. It wasn’t accurate. He and Beatrice laughed a great deal together. He grinned triumphantly. “We both like the theater as well.”
“Fair play,” Kit said. “You won’t always be insufferable, just most of the time, and when you aren’t out at the theater.”
William tossed back his gin, the suspicious East End liquor likely burning a hole in his esophagus as it traveled to his belly.
The truth was he was still a bit shocked about what had transpired the morning before. But his shock had not caused him to hesitate.
His lawyers had already made the contract with Beatrice’s stipulations and ten thousand a year in funds allocated to a personal account for her. After signing it with a flourish, William had taken it over to her uncle’s club.
He was not risking anything. Her uncle had wisely agreed to the marriage but had asked him to be discreet about the news of his ruination.
William had agreed because it wasn’t his place to announce to the world a man’s ruin.
But he did wonder if Margaret was going to be told before her wedding, because it was clear her father had no plans to inform her.
Beatrice was a courageous person; she might tell Margaret.
But it would take a great act of defiance to go against her uncle and share the information with her cousin.
If anyone was brave or defiant enough, it was his future wife. Who would no doubt see it as a sin to keep her cousin in the dark about such a thing.
And he admired her for it.
Secrets were often dangerous.
And when one tried to protect someone from such a serious thing, sometimes more damage was done. He wished that Margaret’s father would confess it all.
He hated the idea of keeping it from Kit. But he wanted nothing to sully the marriage. Nothing would darken it for his brother. He’d be damned certain of that.
Everything would be a lot easier if Margaret’s father told her, but people were very strange about this sort of thing.
Tragically, William had seen it over and over again—people so ashamed of how they felt over failure that they were unable to face their families.
Soon, all London would know what had happened. Perhaps he had a few weeks more, but probably not that much.
William was tempted to suggest to Kit that he procure a special license for himself and Margaret so that no one would say anything untoward to them on the marriage day.