The Wedding Escape (10 page)

American heiresses, he had discovered, were rarely punctual.

Edith Fanshaw was different, of course. Her offense was that she was always unfashionably early for any event she attended, due to her parents' misguided conviction that it was essential for their daughter to be seen for the entire duration of each social occasion to which they had managed to garner an invitation. This unfortunate misconception meant that painfully shy Edith had been dreadfully overexposed to English society. Had they been clever, her parents would have had her arrive late, leave early, and keep her mouth invariably shut, cultivating at least some faint air of mystery.

Unfortunately, Percy's bride-to-be always looked hopelessly miserable, like a rabbit caught in a snare. When one attempted to engage her in conversation, a kind of desperate panic spread across her face, as though she were about to vomit. Her timorous disposition had caused her to languish on the marriage market too long without a single proposal, which was the death knell for a woman hoping to secure a marquess or better. By the time Percy's financial situation had become so tenuous that he was forced to swallow his pride and approach her father about marriage, Edith's parents had reluctantly concluded that they had no choice but to lower their expectations for their daughter. Lacking in beauty, charm, or wit, utterly graceless in social situations, and without a monumental fortune gilding her otherwise inadequate pedigree, Edith Fanshaw was damned lucky to have him ask for her quaking little hand.

Of course the Fanshaw wealth could not compare to the vast railway empire of John Henry Belford, but at the time Percy had been desperate. His debt had grown to staggering proportions, and the enormous investment he had made in Great Atlantic Steamship stock, which was supposed to save him from destitution, had instead dropped by a third of its value, nearly wiping him out. He and a few other investors were taking steps to address that, but the stock could take months to recover, and time was a luxury Percy no longer enjoyed.

Then there was the unpleasant matter of Dick Hawkins.

The young brute had been eager enough when Percy invited him to share his bed for a few days. But he had seduced Hawkins too well, for the ruffian enjoyed not only their rough play but also the fine wine and expensive accoutrements that went with it, which Hawkins was loath to forfeit. The filthy thug had vowed to smash Percy's legs and reveal every detail of their fucking to his peers, unless Percy paid him a generous monthly allowance. That final pressure had sent him rushing to seduce Amelia Belford, who had eagerly lapped up his charms—until her parents intervened and put an end to his courtship. Then he had no option but to settle for Edith Fanshaw, resigned that the key to the Belford coffer had escaped his grasp.

As it turned out, he mused, fastidiously brushing his mustache with his knuckles, he had been mistaken.

“Champagne, milord?”

A shriveled old footman appeared beside him, his arms trembling as he struggled to balance an enormous silver tray filled with glasses of champagne. An unkempt nest of white hair shot out in all directions from his head, and wiry white brows and a poorly clipped beard covered much of his chalky, wrinkled face. His dark coat and trousers were threadbare and ridiculously short on his stooped frame, suggesting the garments had originally been fitted for someone else. Lord and Lady Wilkinson must be watching their expenses, Percy decided as he helped himself to a glass of champagne. No cost had been spared on the dozens of potted orange and lemon trees, thousands of aromatic flowers and candles, and miles of gauzy draped fabrics that had transformed the ballroom into a tented tropical paradise, and the food and drink being served were exceptional. Nevertheless, one could always tell much about one's hosts by the caliber and attire of their servants. Once he was married and his financial situation had been resolved, he would see to it that his entire staff was completely outfitted with new uniforms and footwear.

“A fine party—don't you think, Lord Philmore?”

Percy arched a brow at the doddering old servant as he sipped his champagne. It was not so peculiar that the aged fellow knew his name, for Lord or Lady Wilkinson had probably identified him from some corner of the congested ballroom and instructed the man to offer him a drink. He was, after all, an honored guest, who was expected to formally announce his betrothal to Edith Fanshaw at exactly ten o'clock. It was not precisely the match of the decade, Percy realized acidly. It certainly could not compete with the Duke of Whitcliffe's announcement months earlier that he was to wed the stupendously wealthy Amelia Belford. Nevertheless, any pairing between an English lord and an American heiress aroused excitement amongst English society, which meant that Lady Wilkinson could safely count on her ball's being written up in the next day's society pages.

What was incomprehensible to Percy was that this badly attired servant was engaging him in casual conversation, as if he were an acquaintance or peer.

“Perhaps you should see if there is anyone else wanting refreshment,” Percy suggested crisply. He tilted his head toward the crush of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen swirling about the dance floor.

“No one here looks like they are about to die of thirst.” The old man's clear gray gaze bored into him with unnerving intensity. “Miss Belford is not coming,” he said in a low voice.

Percy's pale features crumpled as he realized the man before him was no mere servant. “But she must!”

“Your eagerness to see her is most touching. Unfortunately, your choice of venue was not wise.” Jack's expression was hard beneath the layers of his artfully applied disguise. “Surely you must know there is a substantial reward for finding Miss Belford. Did you not realize she would be instantly recognized here, and in danger of being seized?”

“Nonsense,” protested Percy, salvaging his composure. “Miss Belford would be among friends. I would not let anything happen to her.”

Jack studied him, unsure whether he was being sincere or not. His gut instinct told him that Lord Philmore was not to be trusted. But he could not be sure that he didn't feel that way simply because he despised the preening fool.

He had slipped into the house some two hours earlier, shielded amidst the wave of temporary footmen, maids, cooks, and page boys who had been hired for that evening to assist with the ball. No one had taken any
notice of him as he shuffled along the corridors of the grandly appointed home. He had found no sign of either Whitcliffe or Amelia's parents, nor were there any police constables milling about ready to grab her and deliver her into the arms of her family.

As for Philmore, other than his being dressed like a fatuous dandy and his irritating tendency to consult his pocket watch every few minutes, Jack could not see any indication of anything amiss.

“She won't be coming to you tonight,” Jack told him flatly. “It's too dangerous. She will meet you tomorrow.”

Percy's mustache twitched with exasperation, reminding Jack of a disgruntled rodent. “But that is not what I arranged!”

Jack fought the urge to turn and walk away. “Listen carefully. Tomorrow at two o'clock you'll be picked up in front of the Marbury Club. Once the driver is certain that you are not being followed, you will be taken to a safe place where you can see her.”

“Where?” Percy demanded.

“You don't need to know that.”

“I'm not about to just get into some carriage and let a stranger drive off with me,” he objected huffily.

“Fine.” Jack turned to leave.

“Wait!”

He hesitated.

“Once I am taken to her, what then?”

“That's up to you. She has nothing now,” Jack told him bluntly. “She left it all behind the minute she ran away from Whitcliffe. So if you plan to marry her, understand that you are getting only her, and not her family's fortune.” Jack regarded him intently. “Do you still want to make her your wife, Philmore? Or was it only the lure of her money that enticed you to court her against her parents' wishes?”

“Get out,” Percy snapped, banging his empty glass on Jack's tray, “before I have you thrown out.” He gave each side of his mustache another exacting adjustment with his gloved knuckle and walked away.

Infuriated, Jack turned.

And stared in stunned disbelief at the sight of Amelia gracefully descending the vast marble staircase leading into the ballroom.

Even if she hadn't been the famously missing Miss Amelia Belford, she still would have seized the attention of every man and woman in the room. The gown she had chosen to wear to meet her viscount was the amethyst confection she had been examining as he left her. It had looked attractive enough just casually draped about her shoulders, but wrapped around her slender curves the effect was nothing short of exquisite. Silver and gold embroidery shimmered across the narrow contours of the tightly fitted bodice and full skirt, and a satin train spilled behind her upon the stairs like a glittering pool of starlit water. Her hair had been swept up into a loose arrangement studded with a scattering of delicate amethyst flowers, and the expanse of creamy bosom rising in a soft swell above the low dip of her gown's neckline was sparkling with diamonds. It was the same necklace she had worn on her wedding day, Jack realized, which she had tried to give to him as she bartered so desperately for her freedom.

A startled hush rippled through the crowded ballroom. The orchestra continued to play despite the fact that no one was dancing any longer, but even the musicians could not help but glance at the magnificent young woman floating down the stairs with such apparent serenity.

In that moment Jack saw the Amelia Belford he had heard about, but not yet met. Gone was the terrified young bride who had recklessly scuttled down a vine-covered wall in her priceless wedding gown before crashing unceremoniously into the bushes below. The girl who had curled herself into a ball upon her bed and cried herself to sleep the previous night had vanished. In her place was this glorious woman, radiating confidence and triumph as she peacefully endured the relentless scrutiny of some eight hundred discerning aristocrats, each of whom would have enjoyed nothing more than to find some aspect of her hopelessly lacking.

He gripped his tray, furious that she had defied him. Philmore was walking slowly toward her, his arms extended. Jack's gaze raked the room, searching for some indication that something was wrong, that someone was going to suddenly spring forward and grab her. The members of the Marbury Club were clustered together looking contentedly drunk in one corner of the ballroom beside an enormous ice sculpture of a giant fish. Lord Sullivan appeared to be dangerously on the brink of falling headfirst into the punch bowl. Other than that, nothing seemed amiss.

A lifetime of surviving on instinct would not permit Jack to believe that Amelia was safe, despite Lord Philmore's assurances.

Amelia paused upon the second step above the floor, waiting for her betrothed to come to her. Her heart was pounding wildly against the constricted cage of her ribs, which Lizzie had laced so tightly into her corset she scarcely found the room to draw a breath. Her expression was deliberately calm despite the churning of her stomach, her stature straight and graceful, just as she knew it should be. Her gaze was riveted upon Percy, who seemed to be moving with leaden speed, his expression contained. Of course she had not exactly expected him to race across the packed ballroom and swoop her up in his arms, but somehow she found his carefully controlled reaction disappointing. Percy was a man for whom appearances were supremely important, she reminded herself, from his meticulously maintained mustache to the perfectly manicured tips of his milky fingers.

An image of Jack slouching opposite her in the carriage flashed into her mind, his necktie undone and his shirt and coat hopelessly wrinkled from the heat, somehow even more handsome because it was so obvious he didn't care. Jack's hands were large and bronzed by the sun, with palms roughened from years of hard physical labor. A shiver rippled through her. She did not know whether it was from the memory of Jack's touch or the fact that the man to whom she had pledged her eternal devotion was now reaching out to her with a single, immaculately gloved hand.

“Amelia,” Percy murmured, the corners of his mouth barely curved, “I am pleased to see you look well.”

She laid her gloved palm against the damp heat of his, vaguely irritated by the formality of his greeting. What on earth was the matter with her? she wondered. Did she expect him to crush his lips to hers and profess his love for her in front of all these people?

Clearly she was thinking like an idiot.

“Come,” he said, leading her through the parting crowd and into the center of the dance floor. “Let us dance.”

One hand resting against his, the other carefully holding the heavy weight of her train, Amelia obediently circled the ballroom. The other couples began to dance again, but their attention remained focused upon her and Percy. Of course they were waiting for Percy to formally declare his intention to marry her.

She frowned, suddenly wondering why she had never noticed that her betrothed was actually rather short.

“I have missed you terribly, Percy,” she declared fervently, pushing the thought aside. “When my parents told me I would never see you again and that I had to marry Lord Whitcliffe, I was certain that I would die.”

“It was unfortunate your parents could not be made to understand how much we cared for one another,” Percy remarked, gazing dispassionately around the room. “However, I am certain they believed that they were only doing what was best for you.”

Amelia looked into his eyes. They were not the deep, piercing blue she had remembered. They actually struck her as small and rather watery. They also seemed vaguely preoccupied—almost as if he were concealing something from her. That was ridiculous, she told herself. She moved a little closer into him, seeking to minimize the distance that seemed to have grown between them.