Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“You cannot want Mark to permanently ally himself with someone of my reputation.”


“No,” the duchess said easily. “I can’t. But you have to understand who Mark is in this family. He taught me how to defend myself against a man. He’s…he’s just a good person. His brothers would do anything for him. And that means—until the moment you hurt him—we will do anything for you.”

It had been so long since anyone had done anything for her.

“That’s what families do, after all,” the duchess was saying.

For the first time, Jessica began to believe. Maybe she could win out. Maybe she could marry Mark, could leave behind the nightmare of the past. Hope…for such a fragile, futile thing, it was incredibly robust.

“I…” Jessica trailed off and glanced to her side. “Do you think I might have that cup of tea, after all?”

“But of course,” the duchess said. “We’ve your entire wedding trousseau to plan. It’s thirsty work.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MARK LEFT J ESSICA with Margaret. She looked at him in faint entreaty when he disappeared, but there was one last duty he needed to see to. He had a responsibility that he’d put off for far too long, and it was recalled to him with every blue-cockaded hat he saw on the street. He’d been avoiding the thought of the MCB and his supporters, but Shepton Mallet had shown him the error in that.

At this point, with Weston discredited, he was as good as on the Commission, however painful the thought was. And if he was to take on that charge, he couldn’t sidestep this responsibility, either.

Which is how he found himself in Daniels, a club for young gentlemen. The organization was so exclusive that no sign indicated its provenance on the door. Any man who didn’t know where he was wasn’t fit for membership.

Mark was not a member, but still he walked in. The footman who stood in the entry was wearing a blue armband. His eyes widened when he saw Mark. He didn’t glance at the membership list, didn’t come forward bearing obsequious regrets. When Mark told him what he wanted, he nodded gravely.

He took Mark’s hat and cloak and handed them off to another fellow; through the door in the cloakroom, Mark caught a glimpse of hats festooned in blue cockades. Truly, he was entering the den of the lion.

In the club itself, young men were gathered around tables, talking quietly. Fully half of them sported the MCB’s blue armbands. There were no wagers here, no raucous laughter, as in some of the less sober establishments. Daniels, after all, was considered a proving ground for the future leaders of the country—men who were expected to take seats in Parliament one day, or inherit dukedoms.

The footman escorted Mark to a small back room, where a man sat alone. Mark had heard the fellow’s name often enough, but this was the first time he’d seen him in person. The other man was almost Mark’s age, he supposed. Strange that their paths had never crossed at Eton or Oxford. Mark wondered where he’d gone instead. How odd.

Jedidiah Pruwett had close-cropped dark hair and a scarce inch of sparse beard. His eyes were obscured by spectacles. The only color of his dark, sober attire was the blue of his armband—and that was starched and unwrinkled. He didn’t look up as Mark slipped silently through the doorway, so engrossed was he in his reading.

Mark pulled up a chair and sat. Pruwett was reading the Bible; as he read, he fingered the frame of his glasses. He seemed utterly oblivious to Mark.

Mark waited. Pruwett turned a page, glanced up—and dropped his book on the table, overturning a glass of some clear liquid.

“Sir!” Pruwett shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair as he did so. He made an attempt to both reach for his chair and grab his book before the water soaked it through. Instead, he managed to trip over his trousers and land on the floor.

Mark picked up the Bible, stood and offered his hand to the man. Pruwett let out a sigh and took it.

“How embarrassing,” he said, as Mark hauled him to his feet. “I’d never wanted to meet you like this, sir. I promise—I’m usually a good bit more agile. It was just, just the surprise of seeing you.” Pruwett hadn’t let go of Mark’s hand. Instead, he pumped it up and down. “You must know what an inspiration you have been to me. You have meant the world to me. Truly, before I read your book I was…” The man colored faintly. “I was lost. I started the MCB to help others find the way, as you have helped me.”

Mark took his hand away and felt an awkward twinge. “Well. Thank you.”

Pruwett rummaged in his pockets for a handkerchief and threw it over the spill. “Is there any other way I can be of service to you?”

Mark had come here to ask the man to be of…well, of less service. But Pruwett was studiously avoiding his gaze. He stood and walked to the door, signaling for a servant. Silence stretched while a footman mopped up the mess.