Bridal Favors (31 page)

Francesca, thwarted at every turn in her attempts to secure a private interview with either her daughter or the woman she’d sent to “chaperon” her, finally gave way, kissing Evelyn on the forehead and murmuring, “Later, then, dear,” before retreating.

As soon as she left, Evelyn closed her eyes and pressed her fingers into her temples. Her head throbbed, filled with so many conflicting emotions that no single thought could complete itself.

In the space of twelve hours she had taken a lover and been betrayed by him; she’d learned that she was at the center of international intrigue and that she’d been placed there by a man she thought was a womanizer but who was nothing of the sort. She felt abused, used, cherished, and pleasured.

She despised him. She loved him. She mistrusted him. She had complete faith in him. “Ah!”

As disconcerting as it was, however, the one notion that kept popping up through the maelstrom of emotions and fears and uncertainties was the bald, impatient thought,
I don’t have time for this
.

She’d contracted with Mrs. Vandervoort to produce a beautiful wedding reception. Her aunt’s livelihood depended on her. Mrs. Vandervoort depended on her. And she needed, more than ever before, to prove herself. To redeem herself.

Let Justin deal with spies. He could do his job, and she? She would do hers.

“All right, Merry,” she said, steeling her back and her resolve. “First things first. Is the bunting for the head table done?”

“Yes,” Merry answered.

“Mrs. Vandervoort’s dress?”

“
Mais oui
. For days now.”

“The silk flowers for the table arrangements?”

“I completed them all last night.”

“Good. As soon as I have breakfast, I’ll make sure the workmen have finished. Then we’ll hang the bunting. The cook promises the cake will be completed this afternoon.” She thought hard, her mind picking through a seemingly interminable list of details to see if she’d missed anything. “Do the waiters know their duties?”

“Oh, yes. All arrived and most professional.”

“Good.” Evelyn relaxed, but then immediately tensed again. She’d thought she had everything in hand the last few times she’d planned wedding receptions, too. “And everyone is well? None of the staff has come down with measles or anything?” she asked suspiciously.

Merry laughed. “No, no, Evelyn. The only one who is sick is Mr. Quail with his malaria.”

“Poor Mr. Quail.” Evelyn sighed. “What a pity he is too ill to attend his employer’s wedding.”

The maid, who was busily snapping a clean sheet over the bed, made a rude sound. Merry scowled at her.

“You have something to say?” Merry demanded haughtily, clearly intending to terrify the little maid into respectful silence.

But the maid was the product of an egalitarian rural society. No French dressmaker was going to act
her
better. “Only that Mr. Quail ain’t
that
sick,” she answered calmly, tucking the ends of the sheet beneath the mattress.

“Oh?” Merry asked mockingly. “And how would you know this? Unless of course you are secretly a physician only pretending to be a small little mouse housemaid.”

The maid ignored her, addressing Evelyn instead. “Don’t need to be a physician to know that a fellow who’s bringing ladies into his room ain’t feelin’ that terrible. Goldbricking if you ask me. And ’as been right from the beginning.”

“What?” Merry burst out. “How do you know this? Have you seen these ladies?”

The maid straightened, pleased to be the center of attention. “Didn’t have to. I’m the one as does his bedclothes, and every time I go in to change his sheets, I’m washing makeup off his pillowcases. Don’t take a genius to put two and two together, right, miss?”

“No,” Evelyn breathed, her eyes wide. “No. It doesn’t.”

Justin paced his room, raking his hair back with both hands. He had to do something. He had to make sure Evelyn was safe, not only for the present but in the future, too. He had to get her out of this quagmire he’d inadvertently landed her in.

He was still pacing when he heard a light knock on his door. Bernard again? Or perhaps Beverly, with some information. He jerked the door open.

Evelyn stood in the hall, her eyes enormous in her small angular face.

“What is it?” he demanded urgently.

“I know who the spy is.”

Chapter 23

EVELYN MOVED DOWN the line of male servers in a last-minute check before the bride, the groom, and their guests arrived from the wedding. Each one stood at attention, eyes fixed straight ahead, gloved hands clasped lightly behind their backs.

“Very good,” she said to Beverly, who, with the pride of a mother hen presenting her first brood, sniffed at the faint praise and nodded at the headwaiter, dismissing the staff to await the arrival of the guests.

Evelyn walked down the hall to the great room, a critical eye scanning the pristine swan-shaped napkin beside each china place setting, the drape of satin bunting, the sheen of silver, the sparkle of crystal. Banks of imported flowers, silvery blue hydrangeas and creamy wax gardenias, fey delicate larkspurs and blowsy white peonies, filled every nook and cranny of the artificially constructed faerie glen. Overhead, the last taper had been lit, and the mirror-sprinkled ceiling shimmered with a thousand reflected lights, while in the pool outside, the lighted wax lotus blossoms floated serenely beneath the bridge.

On the opposite bank, across the bridge, the workmen had built a shallow niche of faux rock; in it stood a three-foot-tall slab of rose-colored quartz, the cost of which had been enormous. The effect achieved, however, was well worth the expense, for it appeared as if champagne sprang magically from its top—an effect cunningly achieved by means of a glass tube inserted through its center.

Not content with one chef d ’oeuvre, however, Evelyn had arranged for two to grace the Cuthbert-Vandervoort wedding celebration. On its own silk-draped table sat a huge, intricately arranged basket of flowers. Only when one drew near could one see that it was, in fact, a wedding cake, the flowers works of art in marzipan, each petal sparkling with colored sugars.

It was perfect.

No one, not even her aunt, could have done better. Now all that remained was to catch a spy.

It was a bold plan, but when Justin had explained all they needed to achieve, Evelyn had realized there was no reasonable alternative. They had only one trump card to play: the fact that Quail didn’t know he’d been unmasked.

So, they would move first. And they had a plan. Successful spying, Evelyn was learning, left as little to chance as possible. In fact, spying sounded like the sort of job only very competent, capable, and clear-sighted individuals would be good at. Grudgingly, her respect for Justin had resurfaced.

Unfortunately, her role in the plan would be small, but very important. Best of all, Justin promised that their plan would not in any way effect the Cuthbert-Vandervoort celebration. No one at the party would ever know that an international incident was being narrowly averted in the rooms next door.

Evelyn pulled her small gold watch from the pocket hidden in her skirts and checked the time. The orchestra situated in the great room began warming up. Resolutely, she approached the conductor.

“Lady Evelyn?”

She inclined her head. “You understand that when the bride and groom arrive, you are to immediately begin a rousing rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A most particularly robust version, you understand. We want to make the new Lady Cuthbert feel welcome.”

“Indeed, yes.” The small man nodded enthusiastically. “We will put great spirit into it.”

“Excellent.” The sound of voices coming down the hall brought her round. Beverly was bowing to the first arriving guests with an ostentation that bordered on the satiric. Beside him, Merry bobbed up and down, smiling with gamine delight—

Merry?! Who’d invited her? Good God, that’s all she needed, Merry shadowing her footsteps. With a gracious tilt of her head and a nod at the new arrivals, she approached the butler.

“Thank you, yes, I am. You’re too kind,” she demurred to a woman who asked if she was the lady responsible for the gorgeous rooms. Evelyn lowered her eyes modestly as the woman drifted by, and then seized Beverly’s arm.

“Keep Merry with you!” she whispered.

“Must I?” Beverly asked, his expression hounded. She didn’t have time to indulge him in his little dislikes.

“Yes!” She turned to greet a trio of people she’d dined with a few nights ago. “Oh, do you like it? I am so pleased!” They moved on.

“And how am I to achieve this?” Beverly asked.

“I don’t care! Just do it!” she said, and with a brilliant smile flowed by him and out into the hall. A queue had gathered at the front door—just as they were supposed to, because the door next to it led into the library where the decoy crate stood, safe only as long as a crowd of people protected it.

A second later a ripple of excitement spread through the crowd and they parted to admit the bride and groom. Mrs. Vandervoort—now Lady Cuthbert—swept in, regal in Merry’s magnificent blue organdy gown, her blond hair piled atop her head. Behind her, clearing his throat and beaming, came Lord Cuthbert, his stocky figure trussed most pleasingly into his cutaway, his blunt, unremarkable features pink with delight as he moved awkwardly to his new bride’s side.

Lady Cuthbert greeted well-wishers while asking her guests to join them, an invitation to which Evelyn added her voice. Within minutes, the greater part of the crowd had entered the great room, leaving only a few stragglers hastening behind.

Evelyn took a deep breath and looked into the mirror hanging in the hall, carefully appraising her image. Her dress was made of lilac and dark green jacquard, the off-the-shoulder neckline piped in green velvet. From where the dress fit her hips, the skirts fell in graceful folds to the floor, the crisp rustle of lilac taffeta skirts whispering over sequined shoes.

Merry had dressed Evelyn’s hair up and wound a choker of pearls around her throat. Covering her hands were the finest kid gloves. Yes, she looked stylish. Maybe even elegant. But did she look
formidable
?

It was too late to do anything about it now. She must now rely on her not inconsiderable acting skills. Besides, in her own milieu, she
was
formidable. She must remember that.

From the open doors at the end of the hall, she heard the orchestra strike tentative notes. It was time.

She moved decisively down the hall and into the wing holding the bedchambers. At Quail’s door, her courage began to falter. The hand that gripped the knob was slick with perspiration.

But then she thought of Justin. He was only a few feet away behind the next door, waiting. She could feel his eyes on her, the door must be ajar. She barely kept from looking over her shoulder, not because she feared witnesses, but because she did not want Justin to see she was afraid. For then he would call off their plan and they would be no better off than before, perhaps a good deal worse.

She knocked lightly and thought she heard from within the room the sound of hasty footsteps and the creak of a mattress. “Mr. Quail?”

He did not answer. He had to.

She knocked more loudly. “I say, Mr. Quail, are you all right? The maid said she thought she heard the sound of falling from within your room!”

Another short silence, then a man’s voice, hoarse and feeble—apparently Justin was not the only one good at his job. “Lady Evelyn? I’m in bed. I am fine except I feel so . . . weak. Please, don’t—”

But she already had. She turned the key in the door and pushed it open. The room was as it had been on her last visit, steeped in darkness, the curtains drawn, a single jet light glowing faintly on the far wall. Quail shivered beneath a pile of blankets, tossing his head fretfully, his hands clutching the sheets. His eyes were partially closed, but Evelyn would have sworn he tracked her every move.

“You are too kind, Lady Evelyn. But please, is that not music I hear?”

Evelyn turned toward the door she’d purposely left slightly ajar. “Yes.”

“Then you must go at once. Mrs. Vandervoort will expect you. I will go back to sleep.”

“Yes.” Damn. She ought to be able to come up with some bit of dialogue better than that, but the machinery of her mind seemed to have become clogged. Outside the room, even from this distance, she suddenly heard the thundering first chords of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Time slowed to a crawl.

He could kill me.

She felt her feet carry her to the bed, saw Quail’s eyes flicker with surprise, heard her own voice mutter something vague, and felt her lips stretch over her teeth in a rictuslike smile. She bent down. He recoiled as she laid her fingers against his cheek, the caring nursemaid testing his temperature.

He was cool. His makeup was slick . . .
Two, three, four. Now!

Time catapulted forward again. She jerked upright, scrambling, backing toward the door, shouting above the din of the music, “Powell! It’s Quail! It’s Quail!”