Page 12 of The Scarred Lyon

Duncan leaned back in his chair and sipped his scotch thoughtfully. Patrick knew him well enough not to ask questions about the earl. It was wise to have any information about the earldom in case of future trouble. And yes, to see whether Augusta spoke the truth about the earl and his untimely death.

Nine days later…

“Mrs. Cheevers, the viscount and viscountess wish to speak with you before the Duke of Allenby arrives. They are in the drawing room.”

But, of course.

Living with her parents temporarily felt stifling, though she hesitated to seem ungrateful because they had paid a significant fee for the upcoming wedding. She hadn’t seen the duke since their private meeting at the Lyon’s Den, but they had exchanged messages over the past few days. His most recent letter said they would be ready to leave once he arrived with the special license. Augusta had packed her small trunk two days earlier, anxious to move on with her life.

“Thank you, Lily. I will be down directly.”

As she descended the stairs, she regretted that her brother wasn’t there. He must be seventeen now, busy with school and preparing to attend university next autumn. They were strangers, and much of that was Augusta’s fault. She should have written to Gregory long before this. She pushed the guilt to the back of her mind and entered the room. Her imperious father stood at the window, gazing at the small garden, his hands clasped behind his back. Not that there were any flowers left, since it was November.

Augusta hurried to her mother, sitting by the fire, and kissed her cheek. “Mother.”

“Please sit, my dear.” Her mother inspected her plain iris-blue gown. “You must visit a dressmaker, Augusta. Your gown is hopelessly out of date. Waistlines are dropping somewhat and growing tighter. You must be well versed in this, since you will be a duchess.”

Her father had not turned around, so Augusta sat across from her mother. “Perhaps in the spring. Why do you wish to see me?”

“Your father has a few questions.”

Finally, he turned to face her, his expression stern, as always. Even before she had left home, her father had been distant, never showing affection. Augusta had no idea how her mother tolerated him. She supposed the intimate intricacies of their marriage were none of her business.

“Describe this duke. What does he look like?” her father asked pointedly.

Augusta arched one eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I made inquiries about him. I want to verify that your description aligns with what I was told. I am not going to allow this marriage to proceed unless I am satisfied. What if this man is a charlatan? It is better to know now before a scandal ensues.”

“Of course. Scandal. We must avoid that, at all costs,” Augusta replied sarcastically.

“That is correct, Daughter. You brought it to my door, and I intend to ensure it never takes root or is exposed. Your brother’s future is at stake. The ton is unforgiving, and I do not want this family to be ruined socially. Regardless of what you think of me, that includes you. I will not hand my only daughter over to a stranger without at least a cursory investigation.”

Augusta’s face flushed. She had brought scandal to their doorstep. That was not a lie. “Allow me to apologize. I was young and felt I had no choice but to flee. I did not want to marry that decrepit marquess or any other elderly men of the peerage. Besides, I—”

Her father held up his hand. “I do not want to hear anything about your life with Southen, your affection for him, however long it lasted, or the consequences. What is done is done. I accept your apology. I am flabbergasted that after all this, you finally consented to an arranged marriage.”

The consequences? He was talking about her son. Her contrition gave way to annoyance, but she would keep her feelings to herself. It was best to move on. “Yes, Father, I find it bitterly ironic that I seek an arranged marriage now, but in this instance, I am the one seeking it. Not you or some elderly aristocrat. All I ever wanted was some say in my life. In my future.”

“Augusta, women do not have any say. We are property,” her mother murmured.

The shocking realization behind that statement and the reminder shook Augusta. In England in 1818, it was true, both legally and socially, and it would likely remain so for decades to come. And once she married, she would become the duke’s legal property, a man she had met only once. Women depended on men for financial support, stability, and a home from birth to old age. “It is a sad state of affairs, isn’t it, Mother?”

“It’s the world we live in,” her mother answered.

“Augusta? A description of the duke, if you please,” her father interjected.

“The duke is well over six feet in height, has the bearing of a soldier, broad of shoulders, and he wears a gold mask, covering the left side of his face. He has blue eyes, and I could see a few scars near the left eye socket. I have not seen him without the mask, although Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated he was injured while in the army. I do not know the particulars. His hair is brown with gold streaks, tied back in a queue. His country seat, Bamford Park, is located near Purleigh in Essex. He was forthright and kind in our dealings.”

Her mother smiled. “I am glad to hear that.”

Her father harrumphed. “That aligns with what I was told. Allenby was a career soldier; his last commission was as a captain in the 8th Regiment of Foot in the American War of 1812. Before that, he fought in the Peninsular War in Spain with the King’s Dragoons. He was injured in Upper Canada in ’13, and his cousin and heir to the dukedom died in the same battle. Since his recovery and return home, he has been a recluse, staying in the country.”

“So he meets with your approval, then?” Augusta asked.

“My daughter marrying a duke? How could I not approve? But this man is maimed, perhaps carrying scars within. Are you prepared to deal with that?” Her father’s concern left her speechless. Augusta had not expected her father to show any emotion. It also sparked a flicker of doubt. Would the duke be an overtly brooding man with a violent temper that erupted at any moment?

The butler entered the room. “The Duke of Allenby, my lord.”