taking her chin in his hand and tilting her head back. “It will not be for long, I promise. You will join me very soon, and if you wish, I will take you to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see the equestrian performer. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the packing of my bags.”
“Equestrian performers,” Lisette repeated to her young playmate after the earl had gone. “Bah! He thinks I am no older than—than you or Willie. But I will show him! I will give him an heir, oui, and a little girl, too. And when you are quite grown up, you shall marry her.”
Master Charles Brundy, displeased with this vision of his future, began to howl anew.
* * * *
Lord Waverly and Sir Ethan departed for London the next day, and within a fortnight had managed to rectify the worst of the earl’s embarrassments. A successful evening at a Jermyn Street gaming house had won for Waverly the wherewithal to make his town house habitable for himself and his bride, and it remained only for him to procure a special license. With this end in view, he betook himself to Doctors’ Commons and the London office of the Archbishop of Canterbury, where he paid the requisite fee of £5 to the aging cleric who assisted the archbishop in this capacity.
“Names?” requested this worthy, dipping his quill into the inkstand.
“Nigel Haversham, sixth earl of Waverly.”
“Ah, Lord Waverly! I was at Oxford with your father many years ago, although he was still Viscount Melling at the time. And the lady’s name?”
“Lisette Colling, spinster, of Amiens.”
The clergyman looked up, revealing pale blue eyes behind small round spectacles. “French?”
Waverly nodded.
“And the lady is of legal age?”
Waverly hesitated over the question, which he had failed to anticipate. None but a fool could look at Lisette and believe her to be twenty-one years of age. There was nothing for it but to tell the truth.
“No, she is not quite eighteen.”
“And you have some proof of parental consent?”
“Alas, her parents, one of whom was English, are dead,” the earl confessed.
“But she must have had a guardian in France,” persisted the cleric.
Mentally cursing himself for failing to anticipate the legal complications inherent in marrying a young lady half one’s age, Waverly assumed a soulful expression. “As to that, it is a most romantic story,” he said with a melancholy sigh. “I rescued her from a Parisian convent with the intention of bringing her to her English grandfather, only to discover that the gentleman had died a scant ten days earlier. Of course, by that time we had formed so violent a fondness for each other that we could not bear to be torn apart.”
“And her French guardian?” prompted the cleric, unmoved by Waverly’s burst of eloquence.
“Perhaps you did not understand: her French guardians placed her in a nunnery against her will,” said Waverly, certain that this circumstance must touch the bishop’s Protestant soul.
“It is a great pity,” clucked the older man, shaking his head sympathetically. “Nevertheless, she cannot wed without their consent. Unless—”
“Yes?” prompted the earl.
“If she is indeed half English, you might apply to the Lord Chancellor for an English guardian to be named.”
“Impossible! We cannot wait that long!”
The clergyman blinked at him, and Waverly, startled by his own vehemence, resumed his soulful tone once more. “Surely some allowance must be made for the natural impatience of a man in love.”
“Unfortunately, my lord—or perhaps fortunately—our laws were not written by men in love,” the cleric pointed out. “Without the consent of her guardian, there can be no marriage, at least not until Miss Colling turns twenty-one.”
“You expect us to wait four years’!”
“It is not so very long,” said the clergyman soothingly. “The Good Book tells us Jacob waited fourteen years for Rachel.”
Lord Waverly might have retorted that Jacob had not been
“Equestrian performers,” Lisette repeated to her young playmate after the earl had gone. “Bah! He thinks I am no older than—than you or Willie. But I will show him! I will give him an heir, oui, and a little girl, too. And when you are quite grown up, you shall marry her.”
Master Charles Brundy, displeased with this vision of his future, began to howl anew.
* * * *
Lord Waverly and Sir Ethan departed for London the next day, and within a fortnight had managed to rectify the worst of the earl’s embarrassments. A successful evening at a Jermyn Street gaming house had won for Waverly the wherewithal to make his town house habitable for himself and his bride, and it remained only for him to procure a special license. With this end in view, he betook himself to Doctors’ Commons and the London office of the Archbishop of Canterbury, where he paid the requisite fee of £5 to the aging cleric who assisted the archbishop in this capacity.
“Names?” requested this worthy, dipping his quill into the inkstand.
“Nigel Haversham, sixth earl of Waverly.”
“Ah, Lord Waverly! I was at Oxford with your father many years ago, although he was still Viscount Melling at the time. And the lady’s name?”
“Lisette Colling, spinster, of Amiens.”
The clergyman looked up, revealing pale blue eyes behind small round spectacles. “French?”
Waverly nodded.
“And the lady is of legal age?”
Waverly hesitated over the question, which he had failed to anticipate. None but a fool could look at Lisette and believe her to be twenty-one years of age. There was nothing for it but to tell the truth.
“No, she is not quite eighteen.”
“And you have some proof of parental consent?”
“Alas, her parents, one of whom was English, are dead,” the earl confessed.
“But she must have had a guardian in France,” persisted the cleric.
Mentally cursing himself for failing to anticipate the legal complications inherent in marrying a young lady half one’s age, Waverly assumed a soulful expression. “As to that, it is a most romantic story,” he said with a melancholy sigh. “I rescued her from a Parisian convent with the intention of bringing her to her English grandfather, only to discover that the gentleman had died a scant ten days earlier. Of course, by that time we had formed so violent a fondness for each other that we could not bear to be torn apart.”
“And her French guardian?” prompted the cleric, unmoved by Waverly’s burst of eloquence.
“Perhaps you did not understand: her French guardians placed her in a nunnery against her will,” said Waverly, certain that this circumstance must touch the bishop’s Protestant soul.
“It is a great pity,” clucked the older man, shaking his head sympathetically. “Nevertheless, she cannot wed without their consent. Unless—”
“Yes?” prompted the earl.
“If she is indeed half English, you might apply to the Lord Chancellor for an English guardian to be named.”
“Impossible! We cannot wait that long!”
The clergyman blinked at him, and Waverly, startled by his own vehemence, resumed his soulful tone once more. “Surely some allowance must be made for the natural impatience of a man in love.”
“Unfortunately, my lord—or perhaps fortunately—our laws were not written by men in love,” the cleric pointed out. “Without the consent of her guardian, there can be no marriage, at least not until Miss Colling turns twenty-one.”
“You expect us to wait four years’!”
“It is not so very long,” said the clergyman soothingly. “The Good Book tells us Jacob waited fourteen years for Rachel.”
Lord Waverly might have retorted that Jacob had not been
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