“But, sir. Marriage? Isn’t that a bit extreme? I’ve barely accustomed my mind to being a duke. A bride would be a distraction from my work.” And his work was everything. It was him. Who he was, his very identity. A title was a mere name. It had no substance in and of itself. He’d proven himself over the years, as a soldier and as an intelligence agent. In spite of his mother’s estimation of his worth, he had known he was doing good, important work, and that had satisfied him. If he had to change, if he had to be what everyone expected him to be, nothing more than a high-ranking peer who passed along the occasional tidbit of information to the men doing the real spy work, would he lose that part of himself that had any value? Could he still be a good agent if he had to spend all his time being a duke? How could he keep his work life and his family life—the title and all that went with it—separate, especially if St. Clair was encouraging the blending of the two? He felt as if rats were gnawing at his mooring lines. How could he deflect St. Clair from this path?
His boss swirled the coffee in his mug. “Perhaps a wife would be a bit of a distraction, but if chosen correctly, a pleasant one for all that. It would be a great cover, a smokescreen if you will. Think of all the social engagements you could host as a married man, events to which you could invite our quarry. Gather intelligence on them under the guise of newlywed celebrations?”
Newlywed. Him? The thought made him wince. Was he supposed to pluck some innocent from the Marriage Mart, parade her around London as his bride for a Season, use her to disguise his real intentions? And what then? What if they apprehended their quarry and closed the case? Their mission would be accomplished, but he would still be married.
“Don’t leave the search too late. Find someone and get spliced. Then we can begin our campaign looking into the lives of these men from an entirely different angle.” St. Clair pointed to the folder in Marcus’s hand. “I’ll continue to do what I can, but meeting them as social equals, being brought into their confidences, will show us who they really are. Who knows? Perhaps you will get close enough to make someone nervous, and he’ll make an attempt to remove you from his path. That would narrow down the suspect list rather quickly.” He flashed a rare smile. “Begin your courting, find a bride, and attend society events. Insert yourself into these men’s social circle, start shaking the bushes, and see what you can flush out.”
Marcus mulled this over. Sir Noel wanted him to be his birddog. Which wasn’t anything unusual. Marcus had been doing such for years. But this was on a different level. And with different responsibilities and consequences.
He could see the possibilities, but really, it was a bit much to ask a man to sacrifice, wasn’t it? Marriage was forever. And this would blur the lines in his orderly existence to an uncomfortable degree. He liked to keep his life compartmentalized. Family separate from work, private life separate from his public persona. Even his faith was kept separate from his work and his family. It was as if he had a container for each part of his life, and he worked hard to keep the contents from overlapping. Son, soldier, agent, friend, worshipper. He had been forced to add duke. But did he want to add husband? And if so, would he be able to keep a wife confined to just part of his life?
Probably. He was good at it. But it would take careful vigilance. From his limited experience, women seemed capable of invading every aspect of a man’s life. He’d have to choose someone he could relegate to the sidelines when he needed to and who would be content to be treated thus.
A pinch of sadness trickled through him. He’d observed the relationship between his good friend Evan, Earl of Whitelock, and his countess, Diana. They were a devoted couple, and from what he had seen, they kept nothing back from each other. They made decisions jointly, ran the estate in tandem, parented their two small boys in harmony. They were better together than they were apart.
Of course, they were the exception that proved the rule. As a duke, he would be a prize to be caught on the Marriage Mart. The debutantes—and their mothers—would be attracted to his title and his wealth, not him. Not the real him.
They would be using him to advance their ambitions.
But if he married one of them for the reasons St. Clair brought up, wouldn’t he be doing the same?
Charlotte didn’t know if she could stand it any longer. She had kept her own counsel with supreme effort, waiting for her mother to act, for her father to acknowledge what had happened.
For someone to say something.
But neither chose to broach the subject, at least not in Charlotte’s hearing. Had her mother even mentioned the incident to her father? Had he issued an apology? Had he demanded her silence?
There had been too much secrecy though. Two decades of secrecy.
But now Charlotte and her mother knew what her father had kept hidden for so long. How could Mother not confront her husband about his perfidy? Charlotte certainly couldn’t have held her tongue. The fire of indignation burned too hotly in her belly. Indignation and humiliation. The news was probably all over London by now. Tiptrees’ dirty laundry, hung out for all to see and gossip over.
She set the hairbrush on the washstand and checked her reflection in the small mirror, scrunching her nose. Her hair was drawn back severely from her face, as her father required. Her gray dress was better suited to a dowager in mourning than to a young woman of the ton in search of a husband. Long sleeves, high collar. As man bait, it was a nonstarter.
For many years, Charlotte thought her father’s narrow-minded ways were a result of his faith, but since returning home from boarding school, she’d come to realize it was merely his miserliness meeting his desire for control. Keeping Charlotte and her mother plainly attired satisfied his petty dictatorship ways while also allowing him to claim both piety and frugality. He was a man of “religion,” but only when others were looking. It had nothing to do with his heart.
Charlotte pinched her hands on her waist, scowling. Why couldn’t she be willowy and waiflike? She was much too curvy to be fashionable, with rounded hips and a generous bosom her mother insisted she flatten as much as possible with restricting stays. Her figure was more mature than the seventeen-and eighteen-year-olds who would debut this Season, making her feel more matronly than ever. Who would choose her over the sweet young things who would be her competition this year?
The entire exercise of hunting down a husband was distasteful. No one was going to prefer dowdy, outspoken her. It seemed an exercise in foolishness for her to even pretend she was marriage material.
Her eyes peered into their reflection. They were nice eyes, as eyes went. A peculiar shade of pale green, like a piece of New Zealand greenstone she’d seen once in a collection of items brought back to Britain by Captain James Cook. Her nose turned up just the slightest bit at the tip, a characteristic that her old nurse had always said gave her a look of mischief.
Yet she felt like a fusty frump twice her age.
What wouldn’t she give for a pretty pastel gown with lace trim? Or to allow her curly hair to fall in ringlets from a loose knot to soften her facial lines? Or a necklace or velvet ribbon choker to make her feel feminine and pretty? Perhaps a fan to hold at social gatherings so she would have something to do with her hands? Would any of those things make her more appealing to a suitor?
Her mouth was too wide, her chin too pointed, and her neck too long. It would take more than a bit of lace trim or a piece of jewelry to make her feel pretty.