“Do I pass muster, sir?”
A gentleman honed many skills in service to His Majesty’s Navy. Captain Lord Arthur Farnsworth had not survived eighteen years at sea and come through both Aboukir Bay and Trafalgar with all his limbs intact without an uncanny ability to detect a man taking his measure. Sir Stirling James had been taking Arthur’s measure for the better part of the carriage ride to Sloane Street. Unlike French gunners and the occasional fellow officer looking to make a duke’s son appear incompetent, the man Society called The Marriage Maker had the good grace to admit it when Arthur called him on it.
“You passed muster two days ago, Lord Arthur.” The gentleman’s Scot’s burr was a bit more pronounced today. “Otherwise, we would not be on our way to offer you up to Miss Peachum.”
Arthur’s lips twitched. “Will the lady wish to inspect my teeth? Or have you done that for her?”
Sir Stirling chuckled. “The lady wasn’t interested in your teeth. As I do for any of the ladies for whom I find husbands, I investigated your character, your habits, and your finances. All are without blemish. I would not have allowed you to forego the marriage auction otherwise.”
“You informed me the lady is the one who chose to forego the auction. And rightfully so. No woman worth her salt desires to be seen as chattel to be bought and sold.”
“Her need is too immediate to wait.” Sir Stirling continued to study him, as if looking for some chink in Arthur’s carefully crafted façade. “And what of your need, my lord? Why are you so anxious to marry the daughter of a dead swindler, and a highly scandalous one at that? The decision can’t sit well with your family.”
“She is marrying to preserve her library. To put a roof over her head and her books, if what you have had me agree to on her behalf is true. I should think that as odd a reason to marry as any I might have.”
“Perhaps.”
“And my family does not know I intend to marry.” Arthur fought an urge to swallow. “They have had no say in my life since I reached my majority.”
“And became one of the youngest captains in His Majesty’s Navy. You are the fourth son of a duke, a wealthy landed gentleman through your own efforts, and an acknowledged war hero.”
“I hope you have told my prospective bride all of this. She is certain to accept my proposal.” Arthur flicked a speck of dust off his black Weston jacket. “Or perhaps she is clever enough to know what a dead bore it all is.”
“I haven’t told her anything about you at all. And neither have you.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I will ask you again. Why Miss Peachum?”
Arthur gazed out the carriage window. He had not counted on the man’s tenacity. When he’d discovered James’s little hobby and his interest in Miss Peachum’s plight, Arthur had considered all his options and chosen this as the best way to achieve his aims. The lady needed a husband with a good name to overcome her father’s scandal. Before recent events he’d never intended to marry. And once this little charade was over he wouldn’t be married. Not really. His promise to his men would be kept and he’d never have to worry about some marriage minded mama throwing her sweet, vapid daughter at him ever again. A wife was a handy thing to have. So long as she was tucked away in the country on one of his smaller estates, out of sight and out of mind. And from what Sir Stirling had told him about Miss Peachum, the arrangement would suit her requirements as well.
“Is it her brother?” the Scotsman asked as the carriage halted before the Sloane Street house.
“Her brother?” Arthur cast about his memory for the information his investigator had discovered of Miss Peachum’s late brother. Edward Peachum. Ran away to sea too long ago to be involved in his father’s schemes. Died at Trafalgar. He suppressed a shudder and took a brief breath to rid his senses of the smell of smoke and blood and the cries of the dying.
He and Sir Stirling disembarked the carriage. A group of burly men milled about on the doorstep of Miss Peachum’s house. Something was definitely afoot.
“Lord Arthur.” Sir Stirling placed a restraining hand on Arthur’s arm. “You would not be the first man to marry a comrade’s sister to honor a deathbed vow.”
“Do I strike you as the sort of man to marry a woman I have never met for anything less than honorable reasons?” He selected each word as carefully as he might target a ship’s hull to force surrender and for much the same reasons.
Sir Stirling studied him. The man smiled—an eerie, portentous smile. The hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck rose against the wrap of his neck cloth.
“You are known above all else as an honorable man, Captain Lord Arthur Farnsworth. Indeed,” he said as he clapped him on the back and they approached the house. “I am counting on it. Your bride appears in dire need of rescue. Let us go and see if she will allow our help.”