Page 53 of Inconvenient Honor
“The Mallet woman?”
“Lady Sarah Wharton. She will not suit.”
“She suits us perfectly,” his mother sputtered.
Richard rose to his feet. “You don’t have to marry her.” He put down his serviette. “I’ll take my leave. I will send notice to Lisle. They can accept her earl.” Silence followed him to the door.I’ve bungled the thing from the beginning. There must be some way to change Lily’s mind. I’ll find her; I’ll do better. If not, I’ll find another woman I can stand to live with, but it won’t be Sarah Wharton.
He didn’t want a duchess. He wanted a wife.
Chapter Nineteen
Walter Stewart accompanied Richard to a modest cottage on the outskirts of Greenwich four days later. Richard loathed the errand.
If it distracted me from Lily, this damned trip might have value, but it doesn’t. At least it frees me from seeing all the messages from Sudbury House about my “ludicrous behavior.”
A groom engaged in removing the knocker from the door and hanging a black mourning wreath tried to deny them entrance.
“Tell Mrs. Clarke the Marquess of Glenaire wishes to pay his respects.” The man pulled his forelock and went inside to comply.
“She may deny us, my lord,” Stewart mused.
A woman whose husband died with his throat cut in an alley while doing England’s bidding might well choose not to see the man who sent him there.Damn Volkov.
“She has the right,” Richard answered.I hope she refuses us. These things are always messy. Still, to avoid the call would be cowardly.
“Volkov killed him on my watch. It is for me to see to his widow,” he went on.
“Are we certain it was Volkov?” Stewart asked.
“Clarke had him in sight. We know he followed him after he sent notice to us from the tavern.”
Stewart nodded glumly. “About the widow, my lord, won’t the service arrange a pension?” The young man shifted uncomfortably.
“Of course,” Richard answered. But an inadequate one. Hecouldn’t count the number of pensions he supplemented from his own pocket.
To Richard’s disappointment, the widow didn’t deny them. She served them tea and burdened them with John Clarke’s dedication to England, pride in the Foreign Service, and personal devotion to the Marquess of Glenaire.
“John worshipped you, my lord. He would be proud to know you sit here with me.”
Richard forced a smile he hoped hid his consternation. “We regret the cause of this visit, ma’am.” He cleared his throat and withdrew a packet of paper, anxious to cut the visit short.
The arrangements required little explanation. Mrs. Clarke clutched the papers to herself.
“I knew what he did put him in danger,” she breathed. “Though he made light of it. He always said if anything happened to him the marquess would see to me.” She began to weep silently. “You didn’t fail him.”
I failed him when he went after Volkov alone.Richard needed air suddenly—badly. He rose to leave.
“I know you must leave,” the widow said with a loud sniff to hold back tears, “but I must know. Please tell me.”
“Ma’am?”
“How did my John die? Did he suffer?”
“He died of a single knife blow, swift and easy, Mrs. Clark. He didn’t suffer.” The lie slipped off his tongue with practiced ease; the truth stuck rock hard in his chest all the same.
“It is well you didn’t tell her,” Stewart said when they were safely gone. “No woman should know about such things.”
The doctor’s report had gruesome detail on every line. The man’s throat had been cut, his belly breached, his body mutilated. Either Volkov lost himself in rage over being thwarted or he wished to send them a message.
