After several letters had been exchanged via their respective solicitors, the marriage settlements between Sir Stephen Moore and Lady Bridget Dyson were close to being finalized. Three days prior to their wedding, and only a few minor points were still outstanding, one of which included the times when he was expected to visit Berkley Square and see his child.
His continual wrestling with the problem saw Stephen seeking the wise counsel of his fellow rogues of the road as they gathered around the grand table in the RR Coaching Company office early one afternoon.
“I have taken some time to think about this marriage business,” he began.
The recently happily wed George Hawkins frowned. “Such a romantic. I already pity your future wife.”
Stephen ignored the comment. He had suffered enough of them from his friends since announcing his betrothal and future marital arrangements. No one appeared in favor of his plans. Even Monsale, the man renown for being allergic to weddings, didn’t hold back on his obvious contempt.
“You are a fool,” muttered Monsale.
“That may be, but I am a fool with a plan.” Stephen lay a long piece of paper out on the table and began to read. “Days to visit. Sunday from quarter past the hour of ten until quarter to the next hour. Christmas Eve and Good Friday, a full hour.”
The others exchanged glances. Gus and Monsale both frowned.
George glared at him. “Utterly ridiculous. Next you will be offering up various saint’s days.”
Gus clapped his hands together. “Saint Anthony of Padua. Patron saint of lost people and women seeking husbands.”
Harry snorted. “No, he needs Saint Marinus. Patron saint of comic actors, jesters, and those suffering afflictions of the mind. Because you have to be either in jest or touched in the head to think Lady Bridget is going to let you get away with that. My ears are still burning from hearing Alice’s reaction to your absurd plans to never live under the same roof as your wife.”
George nodded his agreement. “Jane, my blushing bride, said some very choice words when I told her that your marriage was going to be in name only. Suffice to say you won’t be welcome at Coal Yard Lane any time soon.”
Stephen screwed up the paper and tossed it in the general direction of the fireplace. He didn’t bother to check if it made it into the flames. “What am I to do? She has demanded that Toby come and live with her. If I visit, I have to make an appointment. You make it sound like this is all of my making. And she refuses to take my name.”
Monsale, who had been leaning against the table at the far end, righted himself. He cleared his throat and the room fell silent, waiting on his pronouncement. “Stephen, my poor deluded friend, I might well be doing my best to hold cupid at bay, but even I am not that blind to your predicament. The chit holds your heart, and she isn’t planning to give it up any time soon. Give in—the battle is lost.”
Pushing back his chair, Stephen got to his feet. He had heard enough. “I made a vow many years ago that I would never marry. Circumstances now see me having to go through with a wedding. She gets the protection of my name, nothing more. Well, the child does at least.”
Harry sighed. “You don’t know what you are missing. I would have thought your upbringing would see you crave the love and joy of a family.”
Stephen moved toward the door. “Bridget knew what I was when we became lovers. And what I was offering. Nothing has changed. As for love, I don’t even know what the word means.”
His friends were right in many ways, the most obvious being that he was a fool. Bridget may well hold his heart, but Stephen had no idea how to unlock the chains that kept it bound.
He had backed himself into a corner, and stubborn pride would keep him there.