A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(2)

“A miner?”

“Aye, Toland started off in the mines but he made his true money smuggling. He developed a smugglers’ route between the Cornish coast and London. He claimed he could move ten barrels of brandy from Land’s End to Edinburgh with nary a taxman being the wiser. He was a shrewd man, and the only one with the blunt who was willing to lend it to my grandfather. Supposedly, and I do not know if this is true, my grandfather gathered enough cash to pay back the debt. However, he discovered in the contract that Toland had charged him so much interest, he owed twice what he had originally borrowed. We took Toland to court, but the contract was ruled valid. Then, to add insult to injury, Holwell claimed a large portion of our estate when we couldn’t pay, and built a fine house.”

Soren’s gaze strayed back to the golden Cass. “Since then, the Holwell fortunes have risen while ours have fallen, mostly through our own faults,” he had to add. The trial of his life was his struggle to undo the damage his grandfather and father’s foolishnesses had brought upon his family’s estate, Pentreath Castle. “Marrying the Holwell Heiress would provide a certain poetic justice, don’t you think? Miss Holwell is her father’s only child. Eventually Toland’s lands would be returned to my family.”

“But won’t she be suspicious of you?”

In the reception room, Cass leaned down to better hear what Lady Bainhurst was saying. Her Ladyship was around Cass’s age and the wife of the influential Lord Bainhurst.

Sitting on Cass’s other side on the settee was Miss Willa Reverly, the daughter of the banker Leland Reverly. Both Miss Reverly and Cass were known as the Spinster Heiresses. They were young women whose fathers knew their daughters were prizes and had yet to accept anyone’s offer for their hands. The word was that both men held out for the best titles. They knew the power, and lure, of their money could ensure their descendants a rightful place among the nobility.

Soren drew his gaze away from the settee. “She might be. We were once friends,” he added.

Camberly’s interest picked up. “What sort of friends?”

“Childhood. Until I came to London several weeks ago, I hadn’t seen her for ten years or so. I was warned to stay away from her back then.”

“So, she was the forbidden.”

“Forbidden? Aye, absolutely. My parents went to great trouble to be certain I knew that a York would never associate with a Holwell.”

“And yet you were drawn to her.”

Soren had to laugh. “Sometimes, you are too dramatic.”

“I just enjoy a good story, especially one that relives the Capulets and the Montagues.”

“We were far from that. I came upon her at a parish picnic. She was sitting inside the church reading while the rest of us were playing our games.”

“How old were you?”

“I was thirteen. She was eleven. I remember she looked very lonely.” A bit like she did now, he suddenly realized. She appeared at ease, and yet, something about the stiffness in her shoulders told him she was not. He understood her apprehensiveness in Cornwall. It could be a small society for a woman of her class . . . but this was a London crowd, and he sensed she was still not comfortable in her own skin.

“Well, you needn’t worry about blood feuds,” the duke assured him. “I asked Letty to mention your name several times and talk about what a stellar husband you would make.”

“You didn’t.” Soren’s reaction was part alarm, part embarrassment.

“We did,” Camberly answered proudly. “We want to take full credit on your wedding day.”

“Your Grace, first, I must do this my own way.”

“Your way is not bringing the lady closer to you. Didn’t you say you need to return to Cornwall soon?”

Soren had. It was imperative he return to Pentreath.

“We are helping,” the duke assured him. “Just a bit of prodding. Letty knows what she is doing.”

“Letty? Do you mean Lady Bainhurst? You sound too familiar when you use her given name, Your Grace.”

Camberly’s easy manner evaporated.

No, this was not the proper time or place for such a conversation, but Soren was not going to let this opportunity pass. His friend had become very secretive. He’d taken to disappearing from Society for days on end. Soren did not believe he went missing alone. Matt returned too pleased with himself. For all the loftiness of his title, Camberly was not a sophisticate or in any form jaded, especially to romance. God help him, he was a poet.

And what sort of friend would Soren be if he didn’t warn him? “Your Grace, you’d best watch yourself. You may be a duke, but her husband prides himself on the power he wields. He is not one to share anything.”

“He is twenty years her senior. He is too old for such a young wife.”

“Still, she is his wife. And a man in his forties is not ancient.”

“He doesn’t appreciate her.”

“He doesn’t need to. He is married to her, Matt. I’ve known you for close to two decades. You are not one for playing games. She is. You are not her first lover.”

That news tightened the ducal jaw. Camberly took a step away.

Putting a touch of empathy he did not feel in his voice, Soren cautioned, as he’d promised the dowager he would, “There is gossip. Letty Bainhurst is not discreet.”