A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels (33 page)

"Do you think we should drop breadcrumbs, in order to find our way back?" Spencer asked her as she slippediier arm through his. "I think Julia does, given the lengthy directions she forced on us since I've never before been to London."

"I've never been to London, either, you know," she said as they turned the corner onto Oxford Street and she looked, wide-eyed, at all the shops lining both sides of the street. "Oh, my goodness, so many shops. Perhaps Bonaparte was right and England
is
a nation of shopkeepers."

"And yet he is on Elba and we're still here. All right, Mariah, from here on out, you're in command. Where to first?"

She looked at him in sheer panic. She'd managed her father for years, had borne up under many hardships—but the sight of all these shops frightened her to her toes. "I have no idea. You pick. Please?"

"There's a gown displayed in that window over there, across the street," Spencer told her, pointing. "It's as good a starting point as any, don't you think, to find a gown for you?"

Mariah regained some of her confidence. "Only one? I had considered a half dozen, at the least. And. shoes. And gloves. Oh, and most definitely a few bonnets. We are, after all, in London. We can't always be thinking dire thoughts."

Spencer could only manfully suppress a groan and lead her across the street.

In the next two hours more than one gown was quickly found, along with a pair of black kid slippers that fit Mariah beautifully, a soft wool cloak in scarlet—not quite town wear, but perfect for walking the shore at Becket Hall—and even a beaded reticule she was not afraid to admit to have fallen in love with at first sight.

It was wonderful not to have to worry about every penny and rather than feel guilty about her purchases, Mariah refused to even ask the cost of anything. Although she did, as Spencer escaped a shop to stand outside and smoke a cheroot, spend what was probably an unconscionable amount of time poring over an assortment of grosgrain ribbons until she found what she considered the perfect ribbon to attach to her father's watch, as Spencer had been true to his word and wore the watch every day.

Carrying several bandboxes, they were on their way back down Oxford Street when Spencer spied a window filled with a glorious assortment of fresh fruit and they went inside to make a few additional purchases, hoping the drizzle that had begun would stop again shortly.

Spencer was inspecting a pyramid of pineapples, struck by the arrangement that reminded him unhappily of pyramids of cannon balls when Mariah cried out, "Oh, my God—Spence. It's her! It's Nicolette!"

"Mariah, wait," Spencer told her, but Mariah was already out the door and running madly down the crowded flagway.

Spencer tossed a coin at the hovering clerk, ordered him to watch the bandboxes and followed after her at a dead run.

Uncaring of shocked looks and a few nasty comments, Mariah hiked up her skirts as she dodged a few gentlemen and their oversize umbrellas, stepped neatly around a young man carrying a plate of meat pies, skidded to a halt at the corner, then turned to her left and took off once more, her heart pounding in her chest.

She stopped halfway down the flagway, attempting to get her bearings, as she no longer saw Nicolette anywhere. Perhaps she'd stepped into one of the shops? No, there were no shops on this narrow side street, save a tobacco shop. But she had come this way, Mariah was sure of it.

"Mariah? God's teeth, I lost you for a moment in the crowds."

She turned gratefully to Spencer, who had caught up with her. "It was her, Spence. I know it was her. But now I can't see her."

"And you're sure she turned this way?"

A handsome black coach pulled away from the curbing just then, its windows covered, so that Mariah could not look inside.

The coach was indistinguishable from any other on the street, so she concentrated instead on the horses pulling it and the driver up on the box. The man's livery was as black as his complexion, as were his hat and gloves, the only bit of color a cockade stuck in the lapel of his sodden greatcoat. This, too, Mariah corn-mitted to memory, and then quickly averted her face as the coachman noticed that she'd been staring at him.

"Spence—that coach! No, don't look! If the coachman sees us, we could put Nicolette in dangers."

Spencer pulled Mariah across the flagway and beneath a canopy hanging outside the tobacco shop. "It's raining harder. You're getting drenched. Mariah? Are you sure it was her? There's more than one blond woman in London, you know."

Mariah wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly chilled. "It was her, I know it. Oh, Spence, they're here. They're really here and it's really happening." Then she turned around, peered into the window of the tobacco shop. "But that doesn't mean she was in that coach. She could be in here, couldn't she?"

Spencer looked up arid down the narrow side street. "It's the only Shop. But, Mariah, there are at
least a dozen houses on either side of this street and she could be in any one of them. Come on, we'll retrieve your bandboxes, find a hackney, get you out of this rain and go back to Upper Brook Street to tell the others. We can assign at least a half dozen men to this street, watching everyone who comes and goes."

"Unless Nicolette was taken up in that coach," Mariah pointed out as Spencer took her hand, leading her back to Oxford Street where there would be a better chance to hail a hack. "Oh, wait! She was carrying a bandbox, too. It was covered in blue and white stripes, just like one we've got. Maybe the shopkeeper remembers her."

"That is also possible, Mariah," Spencer said. "Do you remember the shop?"

"Loathe as I am to admit this, yes, I do. There's a lovely bonnet I saw in it earlier, but as I'd already purchased two, I didn't tell you. You think the shopkeeper will remember her?" Mariah asked as they rapidly walked along the increasingly deserted flagway, as rain seemed to chase Londoners inside before they melted or some such thing.

"That is also possible. And we can hope that your Nicolette placed an order for a bonnet she plans to return to collect at some time before the Grand Jubilee."

He stepped in front of her to open the door to the shop and Mariah stepped inside ahead of him, sparing a moment to take another peek at the natural straw bonnet on the second shelf to her left, the one with the large pink cabbage roses attached to the brim. Ah, well, she would have looked silly in it, anyway.

She left it to Spencer to approach the clerk, a small,
sallow man with a rather dyspeptic expression on his narrow face.

"Excuse me," Spencer said, once again showing a talent for lying that Mariah longed to applaud, "but just a few moments ago my wife espied a young woman she met a few years ago in school and although we couldn't quite catch up to her, my wife did recognize the bandbox she was carrying as one of yours. So it occurred to me that my wife's friend may have ordered something from you and left her address with you. Or perhaps she's planning to return?"

The clerk looked at Mariah, at her damp skirt, her. damp, bedraggled bonnet. "I don't think I can possibly divulge such information about one of my patrons, no. So sorry, madam."

Spencer mentally hit himself. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his purse, tossing a coin onto the glass-topped counter. "Surely you can make an exception, my good fellow," he said, smiling at the clerk— or baring his teeth at the sallow-faced little ferret. It was one of those, he was sure.

"Uh...um...if madam would perhaps care to describe her friend?"

Mariah grinned at Spencer. Truly, the man was a genius. And he hadn't grabbed the shopkeeper by the throat, threatening to shake answers out of him. That could be considered an improvement, couldn't it? "I would be delighted. My friend is French, blond, slight although tall. Her Christian name is Nicolette, but I'm afraid that I've heard that she married since I last had the pleasure of seeing her and I cannot tell you her husband's name. You have an address for her? She'll be returning, possibly? I really do need to contact her."

The clerk's sallow face turned fairly pale. "No, I'm sorry. I cannot...cannot remember, that is. I wish I could help you, I truly do, but—"

Suddenly the shopkeeper was off his feet, thanks to the strong, one-handed grip Spencer had on his neck cloth as he half dragged the man across the top of the counter, going nose-to-nose with him. "Apply yourself."

Mariah just rocked back and forth on her heels and grinned.

Once back in Upper Brook Street, Mariah made several drawings of both Nicolette and Renard, so that whoever was assigned to watch the area around Oxford Street had copies of those drawings tucked up in their jackets, ready to be drawn out and compared to patrons frequenting the shop.

They also watched the houses along the side street, hoping for a bit of good luck. In the chance the shopkeeper, who had told them of Nicolette bringing a companion with her on her first visit—a male companion who the clearly frightened man seemed to believe held all the power of the devil—had lied to Mariah and Spencer about the expected date of her return to the shop to claim a bonnet she'd ordered, the same day as the Grand Jubilee. In the chance that she wouldn't return alone or that someone else might arrive to retrieve the bonnet in her stead.

Even Julia had the drawings tucked up in her reticule as the others went about town, acting the part of rejoicing Londoners out to enjoy themselves, but always alert for the sight of a blond head, a glimpse of a closed black coach and its fairly singular coachman.

There was an air of carefully concealed optimism now. Nobody said that this could be the end of Edmund Beales, of their long nightmare—but everyone thought it, hoped for it, prayed for it.

Mariah had been confined to Upper Brook Street, much to her chagrin. But if she could recognize Nico-lette, it stood to reason that Nicolette could likewise recognize her. As Renard could recognize her.

The last thing anyone wanted was to alert Renard and possibly send him scurrying away before they could corner him,
convince
him to give up Beales's whereabouts.

So, while Spencer and Rian and Julia spent the succeeding days and evenings on the hunt, Chance, who could also be recognized because he'd been nearly grown when last he'd seen Beales and Jules, bore Mariah company in the small drawing room in Upper Brook Street.

Chance sat at his ease on one of the couches, watching as Mariah paced the carpet, reminding him very much of his brother, but in female form. "How did you and Spence meet in North America, Mariah? I ask this only because Julia wants to know, just as she longs to know everything."