“Easily done,” he snapped, ignoring the memory of her hands in his, her palm on his cheek. He would put her on the other side of his house at Brinkley End, where he would never see her or talk to her, or be tempted to touch her again. His plans had no place for Thea and her infectious smiles.
Nevertheless, since they were near the Exchange anyway, an impulse inspired Rafe to call on Thea’s father at the man’s office. It went against all his plans, not to mention common sense, but Thea’s story had roused his curiosity about the kind of man who abandoned a daughter for his own ambitions.
Mr. Knight turned out to be stout and brightly dressed, with a skip in his step and an appealing shrewdness in his eyes. When Rafe informed Mr. Knight that he had married Helen—“met her in Warwickshire…very taken with her…couldn’t wait”—the man seemed to become younger by ten years.
“By my buttons! Our Helen, a countess!” the man repeated, then clapped and laughed and clapped again. He pressed his hands to his chest and murmured, as if to himself, “The girl has done it. We may all rest secure.”
“You have another daughter,” Rafe interrupted. “Thea, I believe is her name?”
Mr. Knight shook his head. “I do not know where we went wrong with Thea.”
“Did it never occur to you, Mr. Knight, that those men in her scandal might have lied?”
“The trouble with Thea, my lord, well, she was always up to some mischief or other, and that time she went too far. We never could make a rule but that she would find a reason to break it. But don’t concern yourself, my lord—our Helen is quite different, and she will be a credit to you. Why, when Miss Larke invited Helen to her house, we never imagined she would end up married to an earl.” His eyes brightened. “But you must dine with my wife and me tonight!”
Even if that were possible, Rafe would rather dive headfirst into a piranha-infested pond. His face must have helpfully indicated as much, for Mr. Knight actively recoiled.
“Forgive my impertinence, my lord,” he hastened to add. “I would never dream of imposing.”
“My bride and I return to my estate in Somersetshire tomorrow. We wish for complete privacy while our marriage is new.” Rafe lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “For the first month, the marriage will be our secret, Mr. Knight.”
“By my buttons! A secret with my son-in-law, the earl.”
At which point, Rafe should have left, but instead said, “My solicitor desires to discuss the settlement.”
His solicitor, having not been aware of this desire, looked surprised, but Mr. Knight didn’t notice. He launched into a story of how he had set aside a portion of fifteen thousand pounds for each of his elder daughters, to be protected even if he lost his fortune again, but considering he now had only one daughter of marriageable age—and why, she had married an earl!—his lordship could have the full thirty thousand.
“Fifteen thousand will suffice,” Rafe said.
From there it was a matter of tedious paperwork, but fortunately Rafe’s solicitor took a perverse pleasure in paperwork and briskly made arrangements for receiving the funds. Back on the street, the solicitor agreed to open an account in Thea’s name, in which to deposit her dowry. Secret, Rafe insisted: The lady must not be informed of her new fortune until Rafe was ready to tell her. If she knew, she would leave, and he had to keep her close.
Close. He shook off the memory of her cradling his face. Not that close, he scolded himself, a scold he had to repeat, several times, all the way home.
Where he discovered that London had not finished torturing him yet.
William Dudley was back on the street outside Rafe’s townhouse. As he had previously, the actor wore tattered black robes and his hair was in disarray. He curled his fingers into claws as he screeched about sorcery and poisons and how the Earl of Luxborough was a demon made flesh.
A very convincing performance, Rafe had to concede. One could almost believe Dudley to be a genuine zealot, like the many other men and women who shouted their messages in market squares around the land. It was all very well for the upper classes to pride themselves on their rationality, in these oh-so-enlightened times, but in the absence of widespread education, superstitions ran deep. No wonder tales of a devil-scarred witch in the aristocracy spread faster than typhoid.
Rafe stopped right in front of him. Dudley gave him an apologetic nod, before continuing.
“Behold the evil sorcerer,” he screeched, clawing at the air. “He who rains demons down upon the innocent!”
“Heard that one before, Dudley,” Rafe said. “Haven’t you a new script?”