Bronwyn Scott – Tempted By His Secret Cinderella (страница 3)
‘Ahem, Mr Keynes, are you listening?’ No. He wasn’t, in fact. He was too busy looking for loopholes. ‘There are conditions attached to your marriage.’ The solicitor raised his bushy brows again. ‘I would listen closely if I were you. No sense in sacrificing oneself in marriage just to get it wrong.’ Barnes had his attention now and he knew it. The old man smiled in satisfaction. ‘If I may continue?’ He cleared his throat. ‘First, the bride must be from a noble family. Second, the marriage must last. It cannot be annulled or divorced or discontinued in any manner or the fortune is forfeit.’
Damn. Sutton had been counting on that—bear out the marriage for a couple of years and then cut his wife loose. Surely he could find a woman who would agree to those terms if she was handsomely paid. Sutton rethought his options. If divorce was out of the question, there was still a chance at informal separation, an ‘open’ marriage, as distasteful as the idea was to him. He had expectations, after all, loyalty and fidelity being two of them. His uncle’s mandate, however, was playing havoc with those ideas along with everything else.
Sutton had no sooner contemplated the idea of the open marriage than the solicitor continued. ‘Third, no separate lives, which means no separate residences and you may spend no more than a third of the year apart.’ Well, so much for the wiggle room. That took care of it. The noose was tightening.
Sutton shifted in the hard wood chair and crossed a leg over his knee. His blasted teacup was empty again. ‘It seems that I am well and truly roped into this, then.’
‘Some would say you are well compensated for your sacrifice. All men marry in the end anyway,’ the solicitor offered in an attempt to soften the blow.
‘It’s not the marriage I mind. It’s the haste with which it must be done and the parameters placed on who it must be in order to claim a prize, a fortune I don’t want except that it must not go to Bax. I have wealth of my own,’ Sutton replied drily. That was the complete irony of the situation. His uncle had given a wealthy man a fortune, knowing full well the fortune itself held no allure. ‘My uncle is blackmailing me from beyond the grave.’ The dead bastard was getting everything he wanted: his fortune protected from his unscrupulous son and his nephew wed, the best his uncle could do to ensure the Keynes line continued, having all but officially disinherited Bax.
‘I can’t possibly consider refusing, for the greater good, as I am sure you know.’ He couldn’t possibly consider failing either. His canny uncle hadn’t only made an ultimatum regarding his fortune, he’d made a game of it, one that pitted cousin against cousin. Bax would get the fortune if Sutton failed. Bax wouldn’t sit idly by and leave the outcome of that game to chance. He would meddle and he would be dangerous, not only to Sutton but to whomever Sutton targeted as a bride. Bax would stop at nothing to prevent him from fulfilling the conditions of the will.
Barnes poured a third cup of tea. Sutton picked it up and drank it down reflexively, his mind moving on to other issues like the pressing matter of a bride. It was one thing for him to marry in four weeks. He had a motive. But what bride of noble birth would marry him under such short notice? And the notice would only get shorter with every day that passed. Where was he going to find a bride in time? Especially one he could live with for the rest of his life?
The scientist in him shuddered to think at the flaws in collecting an adequate sample to base his decision on. The Season was more than halfway gone, but his bride would have to come from whoever was on hand in London and unclaimed at this point. He wondered if his uncle had thought about that? He supposed it could have been worse. His uncle could have died the end of August with Parliament out and everyone already absconded to their country homes. Where would he have found a bride then?
Barnes collected the pile of documents, making signs of dismissing him. But Sutton wasn’t ready to leave yet. ‘What about those papers? We haven’t talked about everything in them yet.’
‘And we won’t until you have your bride,’ Barnes said sternly, not appreciating the affront to his competence, as if he’d left something undone. ‘Your uncle has left instructions to be read upon the announcement of your engagement. Then, and only then, shall we proceed. He was very thorough, Mr Keynes. As for you, there is a lot to think about, and do, if you choose, in a very limited amount of time. Please let me know if I can be of assistance.’ It was about as blatant a dismissal as they came. The implication was clear: the clock was already ticking. The old man might as well have turned over an hourglass and started counting down the minutes towards four weeks.
‘Thank you, I appreciate your time today, Mr Barnes.’ Sutton rose and extended his hand. ‘We will be in touch.’
Outside, the sun was still high, it was still July in the city, and it was still hot. Sutton ran a finger around the inside of his collar. It seemed unfair the world had not changed in the hour he’d spent in the solicitor’s office. His life had changed. Shouldn’t the world have changed as well? Sutton headed towards Ludgate Circus, pausing at the public urinals to relieve himself before he caught a hansom cab to Mayfair. Too much damn tea. Too much to think about, all of it circling back to focus on one critical issue: a bride. Without a bride, it wouldn’t matter how willing he was to make the sacrifice.
Perhaps that was what he hated most about the whole arrangement. It required him to rely on someone beyond himself. It was not something he did easily or often, even with friends. To do so now with a woman he didn’t know was preposterous. He liked to be the one who controlled the variables of any given experiment. Now, the critical variable was beyond him. Everything hinged on her, whoever she might be.
Sutton shook his head. No. He would not be the victim here. He would not focus on what he didn’t control, but on what he did. He might not know a woman to marry, but he did know a woman who could help him: his mother. Before he could approach her, however, he needed a moment or two to think. He had the cab stop and let him out a few streets before he reached South Audley Street. By the time he reached number 71A a plan was forming. He would solve this situation as he solved every other puzzle placed before him—with logic and reason.
‘This is the most ridiculous, most scandalous thing your uncle has ever done. Wherever will you find a bride in four weeks and at the back end of the Season? People are thinking of
‘Those were my thoughts, exactly.’ Sutton gave a wry chuckle. ‘But you look well, Mother. Between the two of us, I am sure we’re up to the task. I have a plan, but I will need an able assistant.’ He studied his mother—a strong, shrewd woman who loved her family fiercely, if not maternally. He’d always thought, growing up, that she would have made a formidable queen in bygone years. He could imagine her navigating the dangerous intricacies of medieval court politics. His mother was the ablest person he knew for what he intended. Well connected, well experienced in society after thirty-two years among its ranks.
‘I should have known you’d have a strategy.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t suppose that strategy involves walking away from the fortune. You don’t need it and I don’t need it, in case you were thinking of taking it for my sake. I am comfortable enough with what your father left me. Who knows? I might even remarry at some point should the right man present himself, then you wouldn’t need to worry over me at all.’ It was a distinct possibility. His mother was still a handsome woman at fifty. This afternoon, she was dressed in a blue-and-silver gown of summer cotton that matched the drawing room decor, her still-dark honey hair coiffed in an intricate collection of braids. Her posture straight.
Sutton stopped pacing and leaned against the white Carrara marble mantel, imported from Italy and expensive, a further reminder that the Keyneses didn’t need the money. They lived well enough on their own, Sutton’s own father having made a fortune in the south-east Asian trade. Sutton shook his head. ‘You know I can’t just turn that money over to Bax.’
‘It’s not your job to save the world from him,’ his mother argued the temptation that had crossed his mind in Barnes’s office. He could walk away and it certainly made things easier. He could forgo a hasty, dramatic bridal search and retreat to the comfort of life as he knew it. But that was neither socially responsible, nor was it the honourable thing to do.
‘“All it takes for evil to prosper is for good men to do nothing,”’ he quoted. ‘I have to do my part.’ Sutton paced the length of his mother’s drawing room, pushing a hand through his thick hair. He blew out a breath. ‘The last girl Bax “importuned” killed herself last week. She washed up on the shores of the Thames with stones in her pockets.’