Page 48 of How Not to Marry a Duke

“Walk me through the financial provisions again,” he said.

Thorne sighed—the long-suffering exhalation of a man who had explained the same document four times in three days and was beginning to suspect his client had taken leave of his senses. He reached for his notes, the papers rustling like autumn leaves.

“Lady Penelope’s dowry consists of twelve thousand pounds in trust, to be released upon the marriage. Additionally, the Ashworth family contributes a parcel of land adjoining the Carthedge northern boundary—approximately two hundred acres of farmland and forest.”

Frederick’s fingers drummed once against his thigh. He stilled them. “And in return?”

“In return, you provide Lady Penelope with a jointure of three thousand per annum should she be widowed, residence at the Dower House at Carthedge, and—” Thorne hesitated. His pen tapped twice against the desk before going still.

“And?”

“And the settlement of Lord Ashworth’s outstanding debts, to a sum not exceeding fifteen thousand pounds.”

Frederick went still.

The clock on the mantel ticked. Three, he counted. Four. Five. The sound seemed very loud in the silence.

“I do not recall that provision.”

“It is in the supplementary documents, Your Grace.” Thorne’s voice had gone very quiet. “Signed by your late father’s solicitor on your behalf, during your service in Spain.”

Spain. Where he had been bleeding in a surgeon’s tent whilst someone sold his future for fifteen thousand pounds and two hundred acres of questionable farmland.

“Show me.”

Thorne produced another sheaf of papers. Frederick read them with the same focused attention he had once given to battle maps and troop movements—which was to say, with the cold understanding that what he found might determine whether he lived or died.

The language was dense, the clauses nested within clauses like Russian dolls designed by a particularly vindictive lawyer. But the meaning was clear enough.

Lord Ashworth was drowning. And this marriage was not an alliance between families.

It was a rescue.

“Has Lord Ashworth’s financial situation…” Frederick kept his voice even. “…improved since this contract was signed?”

“I could not say, Your Grace.”

“But you could find out.”

Thorne’s spectacles flashed. His fingers had gone white where they gripped his pen. “That would require… enquiries of a delicate nature.”

“I am authorising you to make them.” Frederick met the solicitor’s eyes and held them. “Discreetly. I wish to know the current state of the Ashworth accounts, the source of any recent income, and⁠—”

He paused. Outside the window, a cart rattled past. A hawker called something unintelligible. The ordinary sounds of London going about its business whilst Frederick contemplated destroying his honour piece by careful piece.

“—any rumours regarding Lady Penelope that might be relevant to the contract’s validity.”

“Your Grace.” Thorne’s voice held a warning now. “If you are seeking grounds to void this contract, I must counsel you on the risks. Lord Ashworth is not a man who accepts defeat gracefully. There would be scandal. Accusations. Lady Penelope’s reputation⁠—”

“I am not seeking anything.” Frederick stood. His chair scraped against the floorboards—a sound that seemed to echo in the cramped office like a judge’s gavel. “I am gathering information. There is a difference.”

A very small difference indeed, whispered the part of his mind that had been counting golden threads since a garden in Surrey. The sort of difference that would not survive close examination by anyone with functioning eyes—or a conscience.

He ignored it.

He was getting rather good at ignoring things.

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