“You shall each have a presentation copy signed by yours truly. The book’s to be included in the spring offerings. Murray was very encouraging. He thinks it will be a great success.”
“We must all drink to that,” Luten said, lifting his glass, and they drank again.
* * * *
Over the next days, Grafton recovered most of his family’s jewelry. Luten got Mr. Collins appointed to a committee on supplying Wellington’s troops with food to repay him for his help. The appointment paid a rather handsome stipend. But the young member’s real reward was in gaining a foothold in Miss Fenwick’s home and heart. Her keen interest in the arts was forgotten. She found politics as explained to her by Mr. Collins so engrossing she no longer had time for the arts or the whist club.
Cooper realized his cause was lost and also severed his connection with the whisters. He decided to become a traveling preacher. But the club had no difficulty making up their number. The problem was deciding which applicants to choose. Mrs. Ballard feared some of those seeking entry were only attracted by the wretched publicity due to Mr. Russell’s murder.
Luten wrote to Southcote Abbey, his estate near Sherwood Forest, to prepare for a bridal visit. Prance was so busy finalizing his manuscript that he forgot all about the wedding he was supposed to be planning. He would be in the boughs when he learned they meant to do it up with no panache, and no help from him.
“Serve him right,” was Coffen’s opinion, as he sat with Luten and Corinne in her drawing room the next morning. He was let in on the secret of the special license and the small wedding to be celebrated at Luten’s London mansion, with a honeymoon at Southcote Abbey. “Let him bring Byron along and he’ll get over his sulks. Daresay he’ll get a novel out of it. You won’t mind if Byron’s along, eh Luten? Mean to say, he’ll hardly be making up to Corrie on her wedding day.”
They were interrupted by Prance’s arrival. “I have just had a
marvelous
idea for your wedding,” he cried, smiling from ear to ear. “Since you are so busy, Luten, we shall have a very traditional wedding right here, in London. St. George’s, at Hanover Square. Only a handful of guests. A hundred or so. Prinney, of course, and your political friends, Luten. No doubt Corrie’s family will want to come from Ireland. If we do it in the spring, I’ll have time to design a charming gown and bouquet for Corrie. I have a vision of pale pink roses with shamrocks for greenery! For good luck, you know.”
“Don’t they have to have four leaves for good luck?” Coffen asked.
Prance ignored him. “What do you think?” he asked, pitching the question between the lovers.
Corinne smiled. “I don’t think we want to wait that long, Reg.”
The three exchanged a guilty look. Prance stood looking uncertainly from one to the other. “Don’t tell me you’ve already done it!” he cried. “I shall never forgive you!”
“No, we haven’t done it — yet,” Luten said.
“Thank goodness. You frightened me. First you leave me out of the Brigade’s latest success, then the wedding. I’ll dart straight home and design the gown.”
“Better make it fast,” Luten called after his retreating form.
“I daresay I could carry a bouquet of pink roses and shamrocks,” Corinne said, and laughed.
“I tremble to think what sort of gown he’ll come up with,” was Coffen’s warning.
“I shall want a new gown. I might as well let him design it,” Corinne said with a resigned sigh.
Luten rolled his eyes. “He’ll never forgive you if you don’t,” he said, and shrugged his acceptance.
Copyright © 2013 by Joan Smith
Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are
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