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The Viscount. Lyn Stone
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“Turn slowly,” Guy muttered to Lily. “Ride ahead of me at a walk, the same way we came in.”
She nodded and did precisely that. Guy could see around her, but just barely since the streets were so narrow here. He held his breath, weapon cocked and ready lest they be attacked. Tommy would be a deterrent to that since this block was his territory, but he might not be recognized soon enough for his power to be that effective.
They rode out without incident, Lily keeping her mare to a walk when Guy knew she must itch to gallop hell-bent for safety. Tommy hung on to the back of the saddle, unused to riding, nervous as a cat without whiskers. Once on the ground, he would be fearless again. And invaluable.
Once they crossed the Thames, Guy took High Street, turned off on Pramble Close and drew up in front of the house of Justice Jelf.
“Gor, Duquesne!” Tommy exclaimed. “What truck have ye got wi’ Jelf? I’d as soon not come in wif ye, if it’s all th’ same.”
Guy agreed. “Stay with the mounts. Anything happens to these horses, Tommy, I’ll rip the ears right off your head. Understood?”
“Righto, guv. Lend me that gun then.”
“Not on a dare,” Guy replied, helping Lily dismount. “You’re well armed. Never known you not to be.”
Tommy laughed softly, took the reins of both mounts and wrapped them around his left hand. “You be long?”
“Long enough to wed. Ten minutes at most.”
“Ha! Ripe lie if I ever heered one.”
Guy ignored the aside, took Lily’s arm, ushered her to the door and rapped smartly on the panel.
It was midnight by now, but Jelf would be awake, most likely with a card game in progress. Still it took a good five minutes and sore knuckles to get him to the door.
“Eh?” the man snapped as he opened the door a crack. Sure enough, he was dressed, though his shirt hung open to mid-chest and his dark hair was rumpled as if he’d run his hands through it half the night.
Justice Lord Jelf looked much as he had on his worst of nights during their last year at Eton. How he’d managed to secure his current position, Guy could only guess, but it certainly came in handy at times.
“What do you want at this hour, Duquesne? A game?” He cast a lazy glance at Lily.
Guy pushed the door wider and moved past the justice. “I want to get married. You sober, Galen?”
“Sober as a judge,” Jelf cracked, laughing at his own poor joke. “Married, you say? When and to whom, if I might inquire?”
“This very minute, to her.” He inclined his head toward Lily. “Get your book and the paperwork. We’re in something of a rush.”
“Where’s your license?”
“In your desk, I expect. Go and get it.” If there was a form in London Galen Jelf didn’t have copies of, it had not yet been printed up in quantity. A profitable sideline, as it were.
Jelf raked Lily with a sly look of interest. “Sure you’ve got the bride here, Guy, and not the best man? Though it’s pretty enough, whatever you’ve chosen.”
“We can do without the comments, Jelf. We married last month, understand? I want no question of that should anyone inquire or check the records.”
Jelf smiled, a knowing expression. No doubt thinking Lily was in an interesting condition and Guy was doing the right thing.
“You owe me, Jelf,” Guy reminded him.
“And now you shall owe me, my friend. Fifty pounds is the price. Are you solvent?”
“As salt in water. I’m good for it. She’s rich,” Guy said.
Lily nodded and stuck out her hand to shake. “Lily Bradshaw. Nice to meet you, Justice Jelf.”
“Aha, it speaks! Felicitations then,” Jelf said smoothly. “Come with me, children. It’s a nasty deed you commit, but I’ll stand for it. Do we want fictional witnesses or do you have someone in mind? How about Kendale and Hammersley? Will they vouch?”
“Absolutely. Good thinking. I’ll post them my thanks tomorrow.”
They repaired to Jelf’s study where he lit a lamp and produced a handful of papers from a drawer. Pushing the pen and inkstand toward Guy, he watched as the blanks were filled in. He signed, too, with a flourish and then opened his book to commence the civil ceremony.
“You understand this will not be recognized by the Church? I’m not ordained and this is no House of God.”
Guy nodded. “So long as it’s legal.”
“It serves for Jews and Catholics,” Galen muttered, and turned the page to begin.
Guy regretted the need for this, knowing any woman on earth would prefer her wedding to be otherwise. Hell, any man would, too, come to think of it.
Jelf’s curt statements and questions bore none of the sentimentality or religious overtones of the Church of England service. Cut-and-dried, it was over in a trice. A done thing.
“By the power vested in me by the Crown, I pronounce you man and wife. She’s yours to kiss, Duquesne. Have at it.”
He immediately headed for the doorway. “Douse the lamp and close the doors behind you, if you won’t mind. I’m holding three eights and they’re just foxed enough to count me out if I’m away more than five minutes.” He threw up a hand in farewell. “Luck to you both. Barring that, may you have an interesting life.” His voice trailed off down the hallway toward the back of the house.
Reluctant to face her before, Guy now shot Lily a look of apology. Then he quickly bent and pressed his lips against hers, hardly taking time to feel the softness of her lips. Later, he promised himself.
“I’m…amazed,” she said.
“Then my kissing’s improved by leaps,” he replied.
She leaned over to extinguish the lamp. “Let’s ride,” she ordered.
Guy snatched up their copies of the marriage license and certificate on the way out. By first light, the duplicates of the papers would be snug in the files, awaiting anyone who might question the marriage of Viscount Duquesne and Lady Lillian Upchurch Bradshaw. Roundhead would see to that.
In the meantime, there were thirty miles of hard road between here and Sylvana Hall. Not much of a night, as wedding nights went. And God only knew what they would face in the morning.
Guy handed Roundhead the papers and told him specifically where to put them. “Tommy, it’s essential you get these in place before daybreak. Then go to Smarky. Tell him to go and have Bodkins pack for me. He’s then to deliver my things to Edgefield along with whatever information he can gather about a bloke called Brinks. Suggest that he begin that enquiry at St. Mary’s of Bethlem.”
“Bedlam?” Roundhead queried with a laugh. “Aye, guv. Whatever you say.” His grimy hand shot out and Guy filled it with a small wad of bills.
“Also, I’d like an accounting of a Mr. Clive Bradshaw. Have Smarky collect that or farm out the task as he sees fit, but I need it soon.”
“Aye, I’ll tell ’im. Safe journey, guv,” the man muttered, and vanished into the darkness between the justice’s home and the house adjacent to it.
Guy lifted Lily to the mare’s saddle and mounted the gelding to ride beside her. They crossed the Thames once again by way of Westminster Bridge, wound down York Row, silent in the early morning hours save for the clop of hooves.
The horses advanced at a brisk walk along Lower Minette Street, a narrow byway hardly worthy of a name, in order to reach the main road more quickly. They were still not in what Guy considered