Unclaimed (Turner #2)(83)
“I…I wasn’t a particularly famous courtesan.”
The duchess made an annoyed sound. “Pardon my directness on what must be a delicate and uncomfortable matter. Nothing else will serve. If you’ve lain with half the men in London, please tell me now, so we can pack you off to the country before the truth inevitably comes out.”
“Oh.” Jessica shut her eyes. “Not half.” Her voice was quiet. “Not a quarter. Not any sizable fraction. My friend Amalie and I, we had a rule. You see, every man is a risk, so…”
She opened one eye and bit off the rest of the sentence, before she offered the Duchess of Parford an explanation of how to pick a protector.
“But it doesn’t matter. It takes only one,” Jessica said, her throat closing. “And…and more men knew of me than knew me, so to speak.”
The duchess nodded sagely. “So it shall be a small family wedding, then, and a formal wedding trip abroad. Then you can retire to the country to start a family. Is Jessica Farleigh your true name, or was it one you adopted for the profession?”
“I’m Jessica Carlisle.”
“Good. We’d best use that, then. That way, the announcement won’t cause a stir in and of itself.” The duchess picked up her cup again and took a tentative sip.
Jessica shrank back in her seat. “I… If I marry Mark, Your Grace, I promise not to intrude too much. You’ll not need to see me—”
The woman set her cup down. “Not see you? My dear, Parford Manor is in the country. I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong idea.” She took Jessica’s hand. “You must excuse my forwardness. I have been thinking of you as a potential sister ever since Mark wrote and asked whether it would be proper to take a walk alone with you outside. I never had any sisters, and none of my brothers have shown the slightest inclination to provide me with one up until this moment.”
Jessica gathered her arms around herself, her heart filling with emotion. A sister. She’d never thought she’d have another, besides Amalie.
“You cannot want Mark to permanently ally himself with someone of my reputation.”
“No,” the duchess said easily. “I can’t. But you have to understand who Mark is in this family. He taught me how to defend myself against a man. He’s…he’s just a good person. His brothers would do anything for him. And that means—until the moment you hurt him—we will do anything for you.”
It had been so long since anyone had done anything for her.
“That’s what families do, after all,” the duchess was saying.
For the first time, Jessica began to believe. Maybe she could win out. Maybe she could marry Mark, could leave behind the nightmare of the past. Hope…for such a fragile, futile thing, it was incredibly robust.
“I…” Jessica trailed off and glanced to her side. “Do you think I might have that cup of tea, after all?”
“But of course,” the duchess said. “We’ve your entire wedding trousseau to plan. It’s thirsty work.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MARK LEFT J ESSICA with Margaret. She looked at him in faint entreaty when he disappeared, but there was one last duty he needed to see to. He had a responsibility that he’d put off for far too long, and it was recalled to him with every blue-cockaded hat he saw on the street. He’d been avoiding the thought of the MCB and his supporters, but Shepton Mallet had shown him the error in that.
At this point, with Weston discredited, he was as good as on the Commission, however painful the thought was. And if he was to take on that charge, he couldn’t sidestep this responsibility, either.
Which is how he found himself in Daniels, a club for young gentlemen. The organization was so exclusive that no sign indicated its provenance on the door. Any man who didn’t know where he was wasn’t fit for membership.
Mark was not a member, but still he walked in. The footman who stood in the entry was wearing a blue armband. His eyes widened when he saw Mark. He didn’t glance at the membership list, didn’t come forward bearing obsequious regrets. When Mark told him what he wanted, he nodded gravely.
He took Mark’s hat and cloak and handed them off to another fellow; through the door in the cloakroom, Mark caught a glimpse of hats festooned in blue cockades. Truly, he was entering the den of the lion.
In the club itself, young men were gathered around tables, talking quietly. Fully half of them sported the MCB’s blue armbands. There were no wagers here, no raucous laughter, as in some of the less sober establishments. Daniels, after all, was considered a proving ground for the future leaders of the country—men who were expected to take seats in Parliament one day, or inherit dukedoms.
The footman escorted Mark to a small back room, where a man sat alone. Mark had heard the fellow’s name often enough, but this was the first time he’d seen him in person. The other man was almost Mark’s age, he supposed. Strange that their paths had never crossed at Eton or Oxford. Mark wondered where he’d gone instead. How odd.
Jedidiah Pruwett had close-cropped dark hair and a scarce inch of sparse beard. His eyes were obscured by spectacles. The only color of his dark, sober attire was the blue of his armband—and that was starched and unwrinkled. He didn’t look up as Mark slipped silently through the doorway, so engrossed was he in his reading.