Violet furrowed her brow. “Do you need to speak to my father?”
“I need to speak to you,” Mr. McCarthy said. “My client wishes to marry you and has—”
“What?” Violet asked, certain she had misheard him. “I am sorry. What did you say?”
Mr. McCarthy gazed at her with endless patience. “My client wishes to marry you. May I come in and discuss the terms with you and your parents?”
Violet stared uncomprehendingly at him. “You must be mistaken.”
“If you are Miss Violet Brewer, daughter of George and Frances Brewer, I am not mistaken. I would advise you to hear what I have to say, at least. My client is His Grace, the Duke of Farnham.”
Violet’s jaw dropped. This conversation was becoming stranger and stranger. “His Grace?” “Indeed,” said Mr. McCarthy. “May I come in?”
“I—I suppose.”
Mr. McCarthy produced a bundle of papers and offered them to her. “Thank you,” he said.
Violet led Mr. McCarthy into the hunting lodge, drawing the attention of her father, who came down the stairs. His eyes snapped towards Mr. McCarthy. “Who is this?”
“A solicitor,” Violet said.
She looked expectantly at Mr. McCarthy. Although Violet had heard his words, they still seemed unreal to her. This must surely be an error of some kind. She must have understood Mr. McCarthy somehow. His Grace, the Duke of Farnham, could not possibly wish to marry her.
“You must be Mr. George Brewer,” Mr. McCarthy said, extending a hand. “I am John McCarthy.”
The men shook hands. Violet’s father looked suspicious. “And what business brings you to our humble residence?”
“Marriage. May I sit? There is much to discuss.”
“Marriage?” her father repeated.
Violet took some comfort from her father’s bewilderment. He seemed as confused about the situation as Violet was.
“Indeed.”
Violet’s father led Mr. McCarthy to the parlor while she prepared tea for the solicitor’s visit. When she returned to the parlor, Violet found that her father still looked confused.
“Thank you, Miss Brewer,” said Mr. McCarthy, as Violet placed the cup of tea near his elbow.
Violet smiled and seated herself beside her father, who cast her a peculiar look. “Mr. McCarthy has arrived with the strangest news. It seems that the Duke of Farnham would like to request your hand in marriage.”
The words did not seem any less strange coming from her own father than from Mr. McCarthy.
“That cannot be,” Violet said. “Why would His Grace wish to marry me? We have never met.”
It was for the best that they had never met. Like the rest of the villagers, Violet knew what had happened to the late Duchess of Farnham. She could not imagine how she had possibly attracted the duke’s attention. How would His Grace even know that she existed?
“It is, though,” Mr. McCarthy replied, gesturing to the papers which Violet’s father held. “His Grace sent me to you with a contract, detailing all the stipulations of your marriage.”
Violet’s gaze snapped to her father, who nodded slowly. “He is right. I can scarcely believe it myself, but this is a marriage contract to the Duke of Farnham.”
“But why?” Violet asked.
“His Grace believes that you would make a lovely duchess,” Mr. McCarthy said. “He has offered much in return for your hand in marriage—care for your ailing mother, funds to repair this hunting lodge, and a dowery of twenty-thousand pounds, which is yours and yours alone.”
Violet stared at the solicitor. She must have misheard. There was no other plausible reason for the Duke of Farnham to be offering her that much money. This was surely an elaborate jest which someone was playing on her. Violet could not imagine who would do something so dreadful, but she could find no other reasonable explanation for what was happening.
“I d—don’t understand,” she said.
