Mark watched him a moment. “You want to tell me why you are willing to risk so much money, not to mention your reputation, on a woman you barely know?”
“What do you think?”
Mark moved to sit across from Matthew on the settee, his eyes narrow. “I am not entirely sure. At first I thought it was only because you planned to make her your duchess, and you despise plans going awry more than most people I know. But this is not about planning. You are actually angry.”
Matthew tried to steady himself with a deep inhale, but the air shuddered as he released it, and he stared down at his hands, flexing them in and out of fists. “I am. The way those people treated her yesterday—” His teeth ground.
“As if she did not matter.”
Matthew looked up. “As if she did not exist. As if she were not standing there at my side.”
“A cut direct. You know most ladies never recover from such a snub. She will never be accepted in Society again.”
“They will if she is my duchess!” Matthew choked back his anger. “They will have no choice.”
“So when do I meet this complicated woman?”
Matthew and Mark both jerked to face the door. Phyllida Rydell strolled in, her steps slow and casual, her hands clutched in front of her.
“Well, do not look quite so surprised. You two have not been able to keep a secret from me since you were three. And if you think a Bow Street runner can make an appearance in my receiving room without word reaching me, then you have forgotten how this house works.” She lowered her chin and her eyes narrowed. “And who runs it.”
Mark stood and went to the mantel. He held out a hand. “All yours.”
“You instigated this.”
“I talked. You took action.”
“And neither are you are ten any longer. Stop behaving like it.” Phyllida eased down on the settee. “And start talking.” She arranged her skirts in an artful circle around her slender ankles.
Matthew glanced at Mark again, who shrugged. “Not my story to tell.”
“So. Lady Crewood. How did this come about?”
Matthew stared at her, his eyes widening. “How did—”
Phyllida made a noise of derision. “You have been under Wellington’s thumb far too long. I had three notes this morning from people you met in the park yesterday. Two more from those who heard the bann read at the cathedral. Did you really think you could keep this from me with all this public awareness?”
“I had hoped to tell you in my own way and my own time. Not as dictated by gossip.”
“Then you are a fool who has forgotten far too much about Society. Tell me now before I begin looking like one.”
Matthew leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat, and laid out for his mother Mark’s plan and his own actions, including the meeting with Sarah and Mrs. Dove-Lyon. He described what he knew of the events since her husband had died, her move to London, and the household she had managed to set up. Phyllida listened, her face impassive, until he finished.
She nodded. “So your thought was to pluck an impoverished and disgraced widow from within a notorious gambling den and set her at the head of my table. Do I have this correct?”
“She is not dis—”
“She may not be guilty of murder, but she is definitely disgraced. The current earl and countess are making quite sure of that. They have been on an absolute campaign the last few weeks to see that she is viewed as an outcast and possible murderess.”
“Because they want her money,” Mark murmured.
Phyllida scowled and looked from one son to the other. “What money? Lady Crewood is known for being penniless.”
As Matthew explained about Sarah’s trust, his mother’s eyes narrowed. When he finished, she continued to stare at him, then abruptly called out, “Stephens!”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“We are going to pay a call. Please see that my pelisse is sent down and the carriage brought to the front.”