Page 12 of An Earl, His Valet, & Their Wife

Oh dear. He truly hated her gown. No doubt someone of his impeccable taste would toss the garment straight into the ragbag. Or perhaps unleash some untrained puppies onto it.

“You want to tear it right off, don’t you?” she blurted.

Mr. Hunter’s eyes flared. “Beg pardon?”

Mortification scorched her cheeks. Oh God. That had not come out the way she’d intended. Never again would she attempt a jest. “I meant…ah…I haven’t discussed my wardrobe with Lord Whitmore, but might you offer some assistance? I should like to be suitably attired and Mrs. Calder said you know all the right people.”

“Aye, my lady,” he growled, his voice curling around her in a way that made her stays feel far too tight. “This afternoon, when those interviews are done, I’ll summon a modiste. It will be my pleasure tae instruct ye.”

Now it was Katherine’s turn to blink. Why did it seem like he wasn’t speaking of gowns? But before she could reply, the valet inclined his head and departed the dining room.

Good grief. She truly was losing her wits. But they needed to be regathered swiftly. The hiring of an excellent lady’s maid, one who would be both competent and loyal, was no easy task.

Gowns could wait until later.

* * *

Despite the hustle and bustle of Cheapside, the Bank of England interior was restrained decorum. Especially in the private second-floor office of Mr. Armstrong, Michael’s longtime personal banker. Up here, the offices were quiet, well-lit sanctuaries with thick rugs to muffle footsteps, tea or brandy served on silver trays, and men who took their oath of privacy and discretion very seriously indeed.

Alas, pleasant surroundings didn’t make the process faster or less mind-numbing. He’d thought that House bills were the dullest, most verbose nonsense a man could read, but marital documents were far worse. In truth, it was easy to see why some women resisted marriage, and also why widows were loath to wed again. The law was neither just nor kind.

At least he could be both specific and generous in his instructions.

Michael flexed his cramping fingers before signing the document and pressing his signet ring into a dab of red sealing wax to complete Armstrong’s preferred process. Yes, it was a little convoluted, but it would hopefully protect him—and Katherine—from any unscrupulous future challenges. He’d long ago made provisions for Gerry, but it was reassuring to know that in the event of anything untoward, she would be taken care of.

“Many more, Armstrong?” he asked, smiling ruefully. “I would like to retain use of my hand and mind today.”

The banker inclined his head. “Apologies, my lord. I know it is a lot to wade through. But now we’ve officially amended your will and settled property and jointure details, the only remaining matter is her ladyship’s pin money. Did you have a figure in mind?”

Michael sat back and drummed his fingers on the chair arm. He didn’t want Katherine ever having to worry about being evicted or cheated out of what was rightfully hers. If she bore him a son, there would be no issue. But until that time, bloody Nero remained heir presumptive and he didn’t trust his cousin for a second.

Ready money was key. Enough for her to live on.

“I must admit, Armstrong, I’m not overly familiar with the cost of everyday items for ladies,” said Michael slowly. “I do know my new countess is very fond of books and I certainly don’t wish to appear miserly.”

“Of course, my lord. Many gentlemen bestow a certain sum but increase it significantly on the birth of an heir. A reward for duty done, as they say.”

The emotionless reduction of Katherine to heir-provider made him wince, yet that was the purpose of this marriage. However, a princely sum would certainly be a gesture of goodwill.

“One hundred guineas,” Michael said abruptly.

“Annually?” asked Mr. Armstrong, dipping his quill into the inkpot.

“Quarterly.”

The other man blinked. “That is, ah, a very large sum.”

Michael smiled. “I possess a very large fortune. Please open an account for Lady Whitmore without delay. She may withdraw any amount at her own discretion.”

This time the banker’s eyes actually bulged. Was he about to witness a head explosion? To his relief, Armstrong collected himself, and moments later, the money matters were complete.

“Thank you for coming in, my lord,” said the banker, rising to his feet. “I shall have all the documents witnessed, and copies sent to your lawyers. Please ask her ladyship to visit, so she might provide her signature for my records. This helps ensure no acts of fraud.”

“You run a tight ship, Armstrong,” said Michael, shaking the man’s outstretched hand.

“I do try. Good day, Lord Whitmore. Please do pass on our warmest felicitations to your countess.”

Ten minutes later, Michael’s carriage was speeding toward Piccadilly. Unfortunately, setting up an account at Hatchards wouldn’t take long; he really needed another sixteen tasks to avoid returning home and talking to his wife about their wedding night.