The Lord's Inconvenient Vow

Edge set his teeth.

‘Be nice,’ Sam murmured beside him and he tried hard for a smile and turned to face two women approaching them like ships of the line. He recognised them from the year he’d married Dora, but could not for the life of him remember their names. Luckily they presented their colours immediately.

‘I was just telling Mrs Murchison we hope your dear mama shall come to town now the year of mourning is over. Did I not, Mrs Murchison?’

‘You certainly did, Lady Buckley. And now this! Why, when we read the Morning Tattler you could have knocked us both over with a feather.’

Sam shifted back a little, as if contemplating escape. He tightened his hold on her arm. They were in this together, for better or worse.

‘I had no idea how or why the news appeared in the Morning...whatever...but I wasn’t aware matrimony still had such an impact on anyone in town. May I introduce my wife, Lady Edward?’

The excitement faded from the two elderly women’s faces, replaced by bewilderment and then a totally different look—something very much like greed. Edge hadn’t realised quite how private the Sinclairs managed to remain because clearly by some miracle the news of their marriage had not yet spread throughout the ton. Until this moment. Only the two matrons were looking at them directly, but he could feel the crowd’s interest as oppressively as a hamsin wind.

‘Your wife! Dear me, what a pleasure of course, Lady Edward. We did not know...’

‘Had not heard...’

‘Since we only returned to England recently, that is not surprising. Which reminds me, we must be going. A commission for the Duchess, you see,’ he explained broadly and their heads bobbed like the little parrots that used to perch on his veranda in Brazil hoping for treats. ‘Thank you for your good wishes.’

‘Of course, of course, but perhaps before you go we might yet convince you to do a reading for us at our salon. A most exclusive grouping... And of course, Lady Edward, you must come as well.’

Sam finally spoke.

‘Reading?’

Lady Buckley nodded vigorously, lining up her guns.

‘The Treasures of Siwa, Lord Edward’s latest book.’

Everyone within hailing distance of Lady Buckley’s flute-like voice rustled a few inches closer. Before Edge could shift his guns about, Sam spoke, her voice a little hoarse.

‘You must be mistaken, Lady Buckley.’

‘Oh, have you not seen the morning edition? That was precisely what we thought, but the Tattler quotes Mr Ewan Durham’s words quite clearly, did it not? He was asked about the Treasures of Siwa already being sent for a third printing and he said he expects this will be the most successful of the Desert Boy books yet and that the author is none other than the younger son of the late departed Duke of Greybourne. At first we wondered whether this might be the new Duke, but it distinctly said younger son. Did it not, Mrs Murchison?’

‘It most certainly did, Lady Buckley.’

‘And then I remembered you have lived in all manner of outlandish places and I said—why, yes, it might very well be true! My words precisely, were they not, Mrs Murchison?’

‘Precisely, my dear Lady Buckley.’

This time the silence that followed this assault was absolute, as if a church’s dome had dropped down upon the room. Edge forced a smile, tucking Sam’s nerveless hand around his arm. He didn’t know if he was anchoring her or himself. She wore no expression, as if she’d stepped away and left her body propped by his side. He kept his voice pitched as low as possible when he replied, hoping Lady Buckley would lower hers.

‘You do know you cannot rely on anything titled Tattler for veracity, Lady Buckley. Such rags thrive on innuendo and invention.’

‘But it was printed as clear as day! Why, we could speak of little else at Mrs Felsham’s at-home hour. In fact, I just dashed a note off to your mama to enquire if it is true...’

‘I am certain my mother will be delighted to hear from you, Lady Buckley. Now, my wife and I really must be going, we are already quite late to...’ He groped helplessly for something, anything, and failed. ‘Good day.’

The few yards between the shelves and the door felt longer than the path from Zarqa and Qetara and far less hospitable. Not that he was concerned about the people around him. His only concern was Sam. He was about to suffer the lashings of hell and he deserved every one.

He risked another look at her and looked away again, but this time because it hurt. He’d never seen Sam look so shocked, not even when the ground fell out from under her when she tumbled through the roof of the tomb in Saqqara and ended up spread-eagled on a heap of rubble. But just like at that moment his heartbeat flew ahead like a bolting horse and he finally realised what he’d done.