The Inconvenient Duchess

years.’
    ‘And I had hoped to go another ten before finding myself in this position. This particular situation washed up on the doorstep almost a week ago. It seems I have got myself leg-shackled.’
    ‘Married?’
    ‘But not legally.’
    Claude choked on his tea.
    ‘To a complete stranger.’ Marcus stepped around the desk and pounded his lawyer smartly on the back, refilling his teacup.
    ‘No tea,’ he gasped. ‘There is whisky in the decanter behind the bookshelf.’
    ‘So early in the day?’
    ‘When the situation calls for it. Pour one for yourself and explain.’
    Marcus went to the decanter and poured a healthy inch into the bottom of each empty teacup. Behind him Claude muttered, ‘I knew you were too good to be true. My father warned me about the Haughleighs. And I thought, perhaps, that we might skip a generation. Or that the mess would limit itself to your scapegrace brother.’
    Marcus smiled and offered him the cup. ‘We can never be truly free of our heredity, Claude.’ And he began at the beginning, telling of his mother’s request and of finding Miranda in the drawing room.
    Claude sat, fingers steepled and a look of intense concentration on his face. When the story was finished he reached again for the chequebook. ‘The solution to this problem is simple. A substantial settlement. Enough to set the girl up in a respectable trade, preferably somewhere far away.’
    ‘But if she is a gentlewoman as the letters claim?’
    ‘Then enough to get her home to her family where she can seclude herself.’
    ‘The marriage?’
    ‘Is not legal. Or consummated. Breach of promise, perhaps. But I doubt it would hold in court since you were trapped into your offer. Another thousand pounds should still any complaints.’
    ‘And the blackmail?’
    ‘Would have surfaced before now if the charge were serious. The claim, whatever it is, is forty years old and made against a dead woman.’
    ‘But I want to know what the scandal was. And if this girl was hurt by it…’
    ‘Then you were not at fault. If you truly want my advice, Marcus, you’ll buy her off. If you’d come to me earlier, I’d have told you to send her packing. A family who cared for her reputation would never have sent her to you, and when she arrived…’
    ‘She met St John. If I had not taken her in, there is no telling what might have happened to her with him there, ready to offer assistance. And in my own home. Was I to stand by and watch?’
    ‘If you’d taken my advice about St John, you’d have cut him off long ago. He continues to be a problem because youcontinue to pay his bills. And now your soft heart and your soft head combine to land you here.’
    Marcus drew himself up in his chair, but, before he could speak, the lawyer cut him off.
    ‘I apologise, your Grace, for speaking so freely.’ His tone was anything but apologetic. ‘But if you do not wish to follow my counsel, then give me instruction. Just what is it you want from me in this situation? Congratulations on your nuptials?’ His gaze was cold and intent and his fingers drummed on the edge of the desk as he waited for Marcus to make a decision.
    ‘I want…’ What did he want? He wanted to make a wise decision that would benefit everyone involved, not just save his own skin. He wanted to be a better man than his brother. Or his father. Or the other Haughleighs down through the generations. Men who had, invariably, chosen folly and self-interest over the needs of others.
    ‘I want to know the truth of the matter. I want to know where the girl came from. And what part my mother played in her life. If there is truly some fault, if she needs my help in any way, I want to assist her.’ He inhaled and went on. ‘And I want you to procure a special licence.’
    Claude exploded. ‘You don’t seriously mean to make this marriage legal. Your Grace, I cannot condone such a course of action. It is madness.’
    ‘Did I do any better when I married for love? For better or worse, I am home to stay and there is much work to be done. I was going to have to settle the matter of marriage and succession sooner, not later. St John is sniffing around the house, drinking my brandy and hoping that I choke on my soup. The household is in shambles and I have no idea how to bring it round. This Miranda Grey may be a fortune hunter,but, by God, she’ll earn her fortune if she means to stay. When I return in two weeks, if she hasn’t already fled in despair or locked