Bridal Favors (22 page)

MERRY SAW BEVERLY furtively slip something into his coat pocket. Something, she assumed, being the key to the wine cellar.

Just like a man, she thought, about as subtle as a sledgehammer. But she had to admit it seemed to have gotten results. Mr. Powell had come out of that cellar missing half a dozen buttons, and Evelyn looked frankly blowsy. Her collar was buttoned, her eyes were bright as stars, and pink colored her cheeks.

Merry gave Beverly a conspiratorial thumbs-up, to which he responded by shutting his eyes and shuddering.

“Mrs. Vandervoort, we didn’t expect you!” Evelyn said.

“Your hair is coming down,” was the only reply Mrs. Vandervoort made as she handed her gloves to the silent, veiled woman beside her.

With a little start, Evelyn grabbed a swatch of loosened hair and jabbed pins into it. “The door jammed and we were locked in,” she explained.

“I see,” Mrs. Vandervoort replied with a lingering look at Justin Powell. His answer to her questioning gaze was to glare, an attitude so unlike that of the easygoing scapegrace Merry had come to know that she found herself studying him more closely.

His shoulders were set forward like a street fighter’s, half shielding Evelyn. He looked very ill-tempered. Really, he looked quite delectable.

“Mrs. Vandervoort,” Evelyn stammered out, “may I present Justin Powell, the owner of North Cross Abbey?”

Mrs. Vandervoort inclined her head. “How do you do?”

“Fine, I hope,” Mr. Powell muttered and then, subtly but undeniably, his expression smoothed to bland affability. Now, that was interesting, thought Merry.

“Mr. Powell,” Evelyn continued, thoroughly flustered, “my client, Mrs. Edith Vandervoort.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Justin said. “You’ll forgive how we look?” He smiled charmingly, yet Merry could not help but feel there was an underlying warning in his good-natured question.

“After all,” he continued, “we were down in that miserable hole hunting up an acceptable quaff for your wedding toast. Found it, too. Where’s the wine, Evie? Ah, there it is.”

Mutely, Evelyn thrust two dust-covered bottles at Mrs. Vandervoort. Justin nodded like a fond tutor whose student has produced the correct answer at orals.

Mrs. Vandervoort glanced at the labels. “Very nice.”

Justin adopted an expression of profound regret. “Can’t begin to express my sorrow that my grandsire was such a rotter to your grandmum. ’Spect a wedding will lay the old girl’s ghost, though, eh?”

Though Merry had no idea what he was talking about, Mrs. Vandervoort obviously did. Her gaze shot toward Evelyn, who fidgeted guiltily.

“How kind of you, Mr. Powell,” Mrs. Vandervoort said. “But regardless of my sentimental desire to be married here, I believe the past is best left in the past. I’m sure you agree.”

She didn’t wait for his concurrence before continuing, “Would you be so kind as to have one of your men help with my secretary, Quail? He is outside. He was taken ill some days ago and has been unable to leave his sickbed. But he insisted on accompanying me, and now is unable to walk without assistance.”

Evelyn looked around and spied Beverly trying to sneak out the back way. “Beverly! Go help Mrs. Vandervoort’s man into the house.”

“I fly. Ma’am.” Bev crooked his finger, gesturing for the chauffeur—the fellow in goggles—to follow him, and retreated.

“Now,” Mrs. Vandervoort continued, “as I originally informed you, I have brought my staff: Hector, my chauffeur; Quail, my secretary; and Grace Angelina Rose, my maid.” She motioned toward the big, silent woman.

“I expect the guests to arrive within the next day or two, followed by my fiancé.” She paused. “Will that prove a problem, Lady Evelyn?” As she spoke she looked around the hall, taking in the newly plastered walls, the freshly waxed floorboards, and the sparkling silver on the sideboard. Her gaze neither approved nor condemned; it weighed and evaluated.

When she turned it on Evelyn, Merry had the uncomfortable sensation that her small friend, too, had been weighed, evaluated, and judged . . . as a woman who’d just emerged from a man’s embrace. Her gaze moved to Justin, who looked every bit the part of the self-satisfied libertine.

He’d crossed his arms, making no attempt to hide the fact that several shirt buttons were missing. His blue-green eyes were hooded, his smile disarming.

“
Do
you foresee any problems?” Mrs. Vandervoort asked Evelyn again, this time looking pointedly at Justin. It didn’t take a scholar to figure out that the American lady was really asking whether Evelyn could control herself—and Justin Powell—until after Mrs. Vandervoort had left. A violent blush spread over Evelyn’s entire body.

“No, no problem at all,” Merry interjected while Evelyn struggled to find her voice. “Lady Evelyn has exhausted herself in preparing for your wedding festivities. Why, look at the poor thing! She’s a mess!”

Thankfully, the front door opened at this moment, sparing Merry the necessity of providing further explanations. Beverly and Mrs. Vandervoort’s chauffeur, Hector, entered supporting a slight, youngish-looking man.

The poor creature was in terrible condition. Blond and of middling height, he slumped between the men, breathing hoarsely through his mouth. His skin was an unhealthy pasty color, glistening with sweat, and his shirt collar was wilted with perspiration.

“Heavens!” Evelyn cried in alarm. “Merry, have Buck go to town and telegram for a doctor.”

Merry started forward at once, but the man raised a hand, forestalling her. “Thank you, but . . .” He swallowed painfully. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Vandervoort murmured to Evelyn. “He is much worse than when I left him a short while ago. Perhaps you ought to send for someone.”

The sick man shook his head. “There’s nothing they could do,” he haltingly said. “It’s malaria, ma’am. I have the medicine in my valise. Please. I just need rest.”

Mrs. Vandervoort’s mouth pinched with distress. “Please. Help him.”

“Of course,” Evelyn said, leading the way down the hall. “Merry, please show Mrs. Vandervoort and, er, Grace Angelina Rose to their rooms. Beverly, this way.”

Evelyn ushered Mrs. Vandervoort’s secretary to his room, and would have stayed to see him comfortable except that the poor man’s embarrassment was so acute, and his desire for solitude so obvious, that she deemed it the better course to simply withdraw, with a promise to look in on him later.

She hurried back to the front hall, hoping to repair the abominable impression she and the helpful Merry had made on Mrs. Vandervoort. The hall was empty. Even Justin had vanished.

At once her mind provided a plethora of suppositions and conjectures, fears and frets—none of them having to do with Mrs. Vandervoort.

What was he thinking? Was he even now packing, congratulating himself on a near escape? She supposed she shouldn’t have giggled, but the absurdity of the situation had suddenly overwhelmed her, and he really had been pounding on the door like a man possessed. Or a man terrified . . . Of what? Her? Could he be as interested in her as she was in him?

The thought hit her like a physical blow, disorienting her.

A few minutes later Merry came sauntering down the hall and found her still standing there. The ladies, she said, were resting before dinner, and Buck had transported Mrs. Vandervoort’s crates to her room. “And most unhappy she looked that they’d preceded her here, too.”

“And Mr. Powell?” Evelyn asked casually.

“Went off as soon as you did. Should I find him?”

“No, no,” Evelyn answered hurriedly. “I just, ah, I just wondered where he’d gone.” Gads.

Merry nodded. “I should find him. You obviously want to talk to him—”

“No!” She cast about for something to explain her sudden interest in Justin’s whereabouts. “The fact is that Mr. Powell isn’t supposed to be here at all.” That was good. And true, too. “He promised to make himself scarce once Mrs. Vandervoort had arrived.” She stopped in sudden realization and looked helplessly at Merry. “You don’t think he’s really
left,
do you?!”

Merry snorted as if the idea were daft.

“Not that it’s any of my business, mind you,” Evelyn said, much heartened by Merry’s snort. “But it would make things more difficult if he left now. It’s such an old house. So many little quirks and things only he would know about. Why, that door is a perfect example!”

“Door?”

Evelyn nodded. “To the wine cellar. Who’d have guessed that the drat thing could lock by itself. Is anything wrong, Merry? You look odd.”

“Nothing is wrong, Evelyn. I was just pondering the oddness of old houses and old butlers.”

Evelyn frowned. “I’m not sure what one has to do with the other.”

“It’s an old French saying.”

“Oh!” Evelyn said, enlightened. She strode by Merry. “Well. I’ll be off then. Carry on doing whatever you’re doing.”

“That would be Buck.”

Evelyn jolted to a stop.
“What?”

Merry’s expression was bland. “I am doing his uniform for the wedding. The poor man can’t drive the wedding carriage in homespun.”

Evelyn blushed. Clearly, her mind had taken to dwelling in the gutter.

Merry reached out and patted her on the cheek. “
Réveille-toi, ma belle dormeuse,”
she said fondly before chugging off down the hall, presumably in search of Buck.

Evelyn hurried in the opposite direction, the need to sort her thoughts driving her to the solitude of her room. She closed and locked the door behind her, then threw herself on the middle of the bed.

She could still feel his hand, hear his voice, taste him. It was an example of her newborn depravity that she hadn’t even cared much that Mrs. Vandervoort had almost caught them being, well, depraved. He’d kissed her and she’d liked it. And
he’d
liked doing it. She didn’t have a single, solitary doubt about that.

She had always been very careful where men were concerned. From the time of her coming-out, she’d watched every nuance of a man’s reaction to her. She’d been quick to spy the subtlest signs of feigned interest, so that she could be the first to disengage her attention. It wasn’t that she’d never been smitten; she’d simply never allowed herself to believe anything could come of it.

Oh, without doubt she
could
have caught a husband. After all, her grandfather was a duke. But she didn’t want to
catch
a husband. Because, as much as she was a realist about her looks, she was equally realistic about the good qualities that she did own. She was proud of her accomplishments, and she would not marry a man who didn’t appreciate them, too.

And what becomes of a proud
golem
? It lives alone and dies.

She shook her head, denying a desent into distasteful self-pity. She was smart, capable, useful, needed. Aunt Agatha needed her. Her family needed her. Mrs. Vandervoort needed her.

And now she was wanted, too. By Justin Powell.

The muscles in her shoulders relaxed. Her heart submerged itself in unaccustomed bliss. The feeling of euphoria was indescribable, a warm bath of contentment washing through her, a shimmering river of happiness suffusing her not only emotionally but physically.

Everything was
perfect
. The wedding preparations couldn’t be going any more smoothly. Every one of her ideas had come to magnificent fruition. North Cross Abbey had been dug out from a century of neglect, and under her watchful eye had been reborn into, well, not precisely splendor, but certainly quaintness. But best of all, Justin Powell had been carried away by his attraction to her!

How could her life be any better?

The specter of the old Evelyn Cummings Whyte, the Evelyn Cummings Whyte of that morning, tapped nervously at her contentment, willing to point out a few possibilities and urging an analysis of the facts. Why
would
he want her? How long would he want her? What then? What next?

She refused to listen, closing her mind to that poor creature’s urgent protests. She rolled over onto her back and dragged the pillow to her chest, hugging it.

She didn’t want to die alone without ever knowing just what “carried away” ultimately led to. Not that she believed for a second that Justin Powell would marry her! The idea was ludicrous. But he
did
want her.

She rolled over, her eyelids slipping shut in languid repletion, replaying every second, every touch, every look and caress. She wanted him, too. And she was going to have him. But how? She opened her eyes. She was going to need some expert advice.

With that thought, she hopped to her feet and strode to another bedchamber farther down the hallway. She knocked. The door swung open a second later, and when Merry saw who stood there, her ingenuous face broke into a wide, knowing smile.

She took Evelyn’s hand and pulled her inside saying, “Come in,
ma petite
. I have been expecting you.”

Chapter 17

JUSTIN STRODE DOWN the hall wearing an irritable expression, looking into the rooms he passed as he went by. For the past six days—ever since Mrs. Vandervoort had found them in the wine cellar—he hadn’t caught more than a few glimpses of Evie. True, he hadn’t gone out of his way to look for her, but he’d been waiting, anticipating the arrival of the diabolical device while he charged Beverly with the task of watching her.