At the altar stood the Duke of Ravenshire. He wore black; his face was pale and still. He did not smile. Some of the ladies in the pews whispered that he looked more like a man at a funeral than a man at his own wedding.
At 11:00 exactly, the organ swelled. The great doors opened, and Lady Cecilia Marlowe came down the aisle. She was dazzling: her gown was white satin covered in pearls, her golden curls were piled high beneath a long veil of lace, and on her wrist, catching the light at every step, glittered the diamond bracelet of the Duchesses of Ravenshire.
Everyone sighed at the sight of her. Cecilia smiled to the left and to the right, like a queen greeting her people. She reached the altar and took her place beside the Duke, looking up at him with shining eyes. He did not look back at her.
The old bishop opened his book. "Dearly beloved," he began, "we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
The words rolled on and on through the great church. Cecilia stood very still, holding her bouquet of white roses. Her father leaned back in his pew and folded his hands over his large stomach.
Then the bishop paused and lifted his eyes to the congregation: "Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why these two persons may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace."
Silence fell over the church: one second, two, three. The bishop drew breath to continue.
"I can."
The voice was quiet, but it rang through every corner of the church like a bell. The bishop's mouth fell open. Three hundred heads turned, searching the pews for whoever had spoken. Then, slowly, they realized: it was the bridegroom.
The Duke of Ravenshire had stepped back from the altar. He turned to face the congregation, and from inside his black coat, he drew out a thick bundle of papers tied with a faded red ribbon.
"Henry!" the Dowager Duchess gasped, half-rising from her seat. "What on earth are you doing?"
"Keeping a promise, Mother," said the Duke. "My father's promise."
Lady Cecilia's face had gone white beneath her veil. "Henry," she whispered, "Henry, you are making a scene! Everyone is watching!"
"Yes," said the Duke, "that is rather the point." He raised his voice: "Eight years ago, an honest banker named Thomas Hartley was sent to Newgate Prison, accused of forgery and theft. He died there of fever. He swore with his last breath that he was innocent; nobody believed him." He held up a single sheet of paper. "This is the original loan agreement between Thomas Hartley and the Earl of Marlowe for £40,000. It is signed in the Earl's own hand—the same signature the Earl swore before a court of law was a forgery." He held up