Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

George had another laugh over that. “We daresay there is no precedent for any of this. We shall wait six months.

Give the family time to grieve before the transfer.”

“Are you certain, Majesty?”

“This amuses us, James.”

Montrose nodded. The king only rarely used his Christian name. “He shall be most grateful, I’m sure.”

“Well, it isn’t a dukedom,” George said with a chuckle. “But still . . . ”

Seven months later, at Crowland House, London

“Oh, I do not think I can call you Lord Crowland,”

Amelia said, taking a sip of her tea. “It makes me feel as if I am talking to my father.”

Thomas just shook his head. It had only been a month since they were called down to Windsor, and just a week since the news had been made public. He’d only just got used to not turning every time someone said Wyndham.

A footman entered the room, bearing a large tray.

“The newspapers, sir,” he intoned.

“Oh, it’s a Wednesday, isn’t it?” Amelia exclaimed, immediately moving toward the tray.

“You are addicted to that gossip rag,” Thomas accused.

“I can’t help it. It’s so delicious.”

Thomas picked up the Times and looked for political notes. He supposed he’d be back in the Lords now. He would need to be better informed.

“Oooh,” Amelia murmured, positively buried in her news sheet.

Thomas looked up. “What?”

She waved him off. “Nothing you would be interested in. Oh!”

“Now what?”

This time she ignored him entirely.

He turned back to the paper, but he’d only got three sentences in when Amelia shrieked.

“What is it?” he demanded.

She waved her gossip rag in the air. “We’re here!

We’re here!”

“Let me see that,” he said, snatching it out of her hand. He looked down and read:

From Wyndham to Cavendish to Crowland. . .

This Author offers a point to whomever correctly identifies the man married to the former Lady Amelia Willoughby.

And indeed, after five years amongst the untitled masses, surely the new earl would take Mr. Shakespeare to task.

That which we call a gentleman with a title, estate, and thirty thousand per year smells infinitely sweeter than a mere mister.

Surely the new Lady Crowland would agree. Or would she? Despite her longstanding engagement with the man who once was Wyndham, she married the fellow when he had barely a farthing to his name.

If that isn’t a love match, This Author shall eat her quill . . .