Simon shrugged. "You deserve them. Now, then, as to the matter of introducing my wife to Society. As I said, I shall leave the project largely in your hands. But I will undertake to quash the one potential problem that looms on the horizon."
Araminta eyed him cautiously. "What is the nature of this potential problem, Simon?"
"My fiancee is a rather impetuous sort and there apparently was a rather Unfortunate Incident a few years back."
"An Incident?" Araminta demanded in distinctly ominous tones. "Just how bad was this Incident?"
"As Emily explains it, she was temporarily overcome with an excess of romantic passion and ran off with a young man."
Araminta leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes in horror. "Dear God." She promptly opened her eyes and shot her nephew a shrewd glance. "How bad was it? Did her father stop the pair before they got to the border?"
"There is every indication that the man involved had no real intention of making it to Gretna Green. In any event, Emily ended up spending the night with him at an inn. Faringdon caught up with her the next day and brought her home."
"The next day? He did not find her until the following day?" Araminta was clearly beyond shock now. She leaned forward, her eyes fierce. "Simon, you cannot be serious about any of this. It is all some sort of bizarre joke you are playing on your poor aunt. Confess."
"It is no joke, Aunt Araminta. I am about to marry a lady with a past. But you need not fret. I shall see to it that her past effectively ceases to exist."
"Good God, Simon. How?"
He shrugged without any concern. "My title and fortune will prove a most effective stain remover. We both know that. And I will personally blot up any small leftover drips that may appear."
"Dear heaven. You are enjoying this, aren't you?" Araminta gazed at him in sudden comprehension. "You are having yourself another great adventure."
"Emily has a way of adding spice to one's life, as you will no doubt soon learn."
"Simon, I am going to be blunt. The chit may be an original and I know you are attracted to the unusual. But you must think of what you are doing. We both know you simply cannot marry a young female who is not a virgin, no matter how charming she is. It is one thing for a woman to have discreet affairs after she is married, quite another for her to have been involved in a scandal with a man before marriage. You are the Earl of Blade. You must think of your name and position."
Simon took his gaze off the fire and gave his aunt an amused, quizzical glance. "You misunderstand, Aunt Araminta," he said gently. "There is no question about my wife's innocence. She is, I assure you, as pure as snow."
"But you just said there was a great scandal in her past. You said she ran off with some young man and spent the night with him."
"I do not know yet precisely what happened that night," Simon mused. "But I am quite satisfied that Emily did not share a bed with the young man."
"How can you be so certain?" Araminta retorted, and then her brows climbed. "Unless you have already been to bed with her yourself?"
"No, I have not, more's the pity. I assure you, I am certainly looking forward to my wedding night. I am persuaded it will be a most interesting experience."
"Then how can you be sure she is innocent?" Araminta asked, exasperated.
Simon smiled to himself. "It is rather difficult to explain. I can only say that Emily and I have established a unique form of communication that takes place on a higher plane."
"A higher plane?"
"I refer to the metaphysical world. Your problem is that you do not read very much modern poetry, Aunt Araminta. Let me assure you that certain things are very clear on the transcendental level where two like minds may meet in an excess of pure, intellectual emotion."
Lady Merryweather stared at him speechlessly. "Since when have you concerned yourself with higher planes and pure intellectual emotion? I have known you long enough to realize you are up to some dark business here, Blade. I can feel it."
"Can you really? How fascinating. Perhaps you have access to a higher plane of knowledge yourself, Aunt Araminta."
Lord Richard Ashbrook did not normally frequent the same clubs Simon favored. It was necessary, therefore, to seek out the dashing young poet at one of the smaller clubs in St. James that catered to the dandy set.
Simon eventually located his quarry in a card room.
Ashbrook was playing with the sort of devil-may-care recklessness that was quite the height of fashion.
Simon could see at a glance that the poet was obviously every maiden's dream, assuming said maiden did not mind the weakness about the eyes and chin. Ashbrook was indisputably handsome in a Byronic manner: black hair, brooding dark eyes, and a jaded, somewhat petulant tilt to his mouth.
Simon waited quietly in a winged chair, amusing himself with a bottle of hock and a newspaper until his quarry left the tables around midnight. Ashbrook joined a companion and together they strode toward the door of the club muttering something about going to look for more interesting action in the hells.
Simon got up and followed slowly, delaying his move until Ashbrook had summoned a carriage and leapt into the cab. When the poet's companion made to follow, Simon stepped forward and tapped his shoulder. The man who turned in annoyance to confront him was older and far more dissipated-looking than Ashbrook. He was also quite drunk. Simon recognized him as a gamester named Crofton who frequented the hells.
"What's this? Who are you?" Crofton demanded in a surly, slurred voice, his once handsome face twisted in irritation.
"I require a word with Ashbrook. I fear you will have to wait for another carriage." Simon gave Crofton a small push, just enough to send him staggering backward.
"Damn you," Crofton snarled as he tried to catch his balance.
"Grosvenor Square," Simon said to the coachman as he stepped up into the carriage and slammed the door.
Inside the darkened carriage Ashbrook lounged in the shadows and scowled. "What the devil is this all about? You're Blade, aren't you?"
"Yes. I am Blade." Simon sat down as the carriage lumbered forward through the crowded street.
"What have you done with Crofton? He and I had plans for this evening."
"This will not take long. You can return to pick up your friend after you have set me down at my townhouse. In the meantime you and I must come to an understanding about a small matter."
"What the deuce are you talking about? What understanding?" Looking almost overcome with ennui, Ashbrook removed a small snuffbox from his pocket and took a pinch.
"You may congratulate me, Ashbrook. In case you have not yet heard, I am about to be married."
Ashbrook's gaze sharpened warily. "I heard."
"Ah, then you must also have heard that the young lady I am going to marry is not unknown to you."
"Emily Faringdon." Ashbrook turned his head to stare out the window of the cab.
"Yes. Emily Faringdon. It would appear that you and my fiancee shared a small adventure some years back."
Ashbrook's head came around swiftly. "She told you about that?"
"Emily is a very honest young woman," Simon said gently. "I do not think she would know how to lie if she tried. I am also well aware that nothing of a, shall we say, intimate nature occurred between the two of you that night."
Ashbrook groaned and turned his gaze back to the darkened streets. "It was a fiasco from the start."
"Emily can be unpredictable."
"No offense, sir, but Emily Faringdon is not only unpredictable, she is dangerous. I suppose she told you everything?"
"Everything," Simon echoed softly.
"I had a sore head for three days from the blow she gave me with that damn chamber pot."