“And what an excellent job you have done. But I’ll take it from here. As per my own arrangements with Lord Ventnor.”
When the server set down the fresh drinks, the men eyed the tankards as if they were poisoned, and then, once more, the bearded one spoke.
“I don’t want to argue, my lord.”
“But you will anyway.”
“Just that Lord Ventnor didn’t tell us you was coming.”
Rafe nudged a tankard toward the man. “I was not aware that Lord Ventnor or I were required to apprise you of our movements.”
“But Miss Knight—”
“Is on her way to Vindale Court, residence of Mr. Larke and his family. Did you intend to follow her there? Have you obtained an invitation? Hmm? Lady Belinda Larke, earl’s daughter and famed society hostess, just happened to add you to her guest list, did she?”
“I s’pose you have an invitation,” the man grumbled.
“I don’t need one. I am welcome everywhere.”
“Because you’re an earl, I s’pose.”
“No. Because of my good looks, charm, and cheerful disposition.”
The two men exchanged another look. Rafe didn’t want to be here, not in this blasted coaching inn, nor staying at Mr. Larke’s house, nor anywhere else that involved spending time with all these people and their incessant talking. He didn’t want to commit fraud, or play tricks on Miss Thea Knight, or jump through hoops to get the money from his mother’s trust. But he did want to do something useful with his plants—and the devil knew he was good for little else—and if this was the price he had to pay, he might as well take his entertainment where he could.
Miss Larke’s barouche was long gone by now, and habit had Ventnor’s men curling their hands around their tankards. Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out the two papers there: One was the marriage license prepared by the bishop, allowing Rafe to marry Helen Knight, and the other was Rafe’s note telling Ventnor he had done just that. A trifle premature, as the marriage had yet to take place—or even the proposal—but that was a small matter. Sometime tomorrow, he would invite Thea Knight for a walk in the rose garden or some such thing, call her “Helen,” and invite her to be his wife. If she married him using a false name, the marriage would not be valid, but she—the scheming, social-climbing outcast, whose attempt to trap Percy Russell into marriage had failed so spectacularly three years earlier—would see another opportunity to catch herself a nobleman and rush to agree. And once the trustees had released the ten thousand pounds, Rafe would “discover” his wife was not who she said she was, feign shock, and send her on her way.
Rafe returned the license to his pocket and dropped the letter onto the table, along with several coins. “Return to London immediately, and deliver that note to Lord Ventnor.”
They exchanged another look. “But Lord Ventnor told us to wait and watch if Miss Knight left.”
“And I am telling you there is no need.” Rafe patted the note and stood. “Miss Knight does not know it yet, but when she leaves Vindale Court, she will leave with me.”
The sun was hovering over the pink horizon when Arabella’s barouche turned between the towering hedges marking the entrance to Vindale Court. At Thea’s request, they had made the trip with the hood down. The brim of her bonnet prevented her from properly admiring the scenery or feeling the breeze on her face, but she enjoyed the fresh summer evening nonetheless. They would not be expected at dinner tonight, Arabella had said, and Thea, tired from her journey and all the excitement, was relieved she would spend the evening alone in her room with a hot bath and a supper tray. She had no interest in talking to anyone other than Arabella tonight.
Well, she did have questions for one other person, perhaps.
“But what on earth could the earl have meant, saying he is here for me?” Thea wondered out loud, for approximately the twenty-seventh time.
And for approximately the twenty-seventh time, Arabella replied, “I daresay he will tell us when it suits him.”
“I deeply resent that we must follow his schedule.”
“As do I. But it would not do to let him know that you care.”
That was Arabella’s pride speaking, of course. She was one of those aristocrats who nurtured indifference as if it were a pet. Which reminded Thea of another question.
“The note that Luxborough mentioned,” Thea said. “It sounded as if your father wants you to marry the earl.”
“Oh, Papa always wants me to marry someone.”
Arabella kept her eyes straight ahead. Her profile revealed nothing.