The Wedding Escape (5 page)

Then he blew out the lamp and quit the room, too angry to wonder at the unfamiliar flame of protectiveness burgeoning within his chest.

Chapter Three

A
MELIA SHRANK FURTHER INTO THE DARK RECESSES
of her father's wardrobe, her sweaty hand gripping the frayed string she had tied to a nail on one of the doors to keep them closed. She liked the big, shadowy cupboard, with its familiar scent of oiled wood, polished leather, and the spicy linen sachets that were carefully placed amongst her papa's meticulously laundered shirts and coats. The stillness of the place soothed her, as did the orderly arrangement of her father's attire. She settled herself against her makeshift bed of folded trousers, imagining she was in a tent in Morocco or Egypt, with nothing but a flimsy canvas barrier protecting her from the raging winds and the ferocious animals prowling outside. Or perhaps she had stowed away on a pirate ship bound for the wilds of Africa, and was forced to hide in this tiny cupboard, only venturing forth at
night to steal scraps so she wouldn't starve to death.

Suddenly hungry, she pulled a crumpled napkin out of her pocket and buried her finger into the squashed piece of coconut cake within. Sighing with pleasure, she licked the dense treat off her finger, relishing every morsel. If she was very careful, perhaps she could make it last for the duration of the six-week journey. A more difficult problem was water. For that she would have to venture onto the deck, which meant creeping over the murderous pirates as they slept. If one of them wakened, she would have to fight for her life with her sword. Her fingers gripped the fine stick Freddy had found for her in the garden. She thought she could probably overtake a dozen or so of them, but how many cutthroats were aboard this terrible ship? Thirty? Sixty? A hundred?

“Miss Amelia, you come out at once, do you hear?”

Her heart pounding, she stuffed her precious food back into her pocket and pulled the string tighter. It was only a matter of time before they discovered her, she realized desperately. What foul punishment would they inflict upon her? Would they lash her? Cut her throat? Make her walk the plank? The string was biting into her flesh now, straining against her grip as someone pulled with fierce determination upon the door of her hiding place. Amelia held fast, but she was no match for the steely strength of her captor.

The string snapped suddenly, causing the wardrobe door to fly open with such force it slammed against the nursery maid's forehead. The poor girl shrieked with outrage and went running from the bedchamber, wailing that Amelia had tried to kill her.

Amelia sighed.

It would be days before she was permitted to leave the upstairs nursery again.

 

T
HERE WAS A CLOCK DILIGENTLY TAPPING AWAY SOME-
where in the room. It was this that her mind fastened upon first—the steady, rhythmic cadence of time. It chipped insistently at her senses, eroding the filmy layers of exhaustion. She burrowed her face deeper into the pillow and squeezed her eyes tight, fighting it. She did not want to waken. She had not wanted to waken for months now, not since her life had been taken from her and pressed firmly into the damp, fleshy palm of Lord Whitcliffe. Every morning she was overcome with the same paralyzing despair, which she fought by trying to retreat back into the warm waters of sleep. But as the days pushed her ever closer to her union with the repellent old duke, even sleep had lost its ability to grant respite. The memories of her childhood antics had become bittersweet, the endings invariably bleak. She was always trapped at the conclusion, a prisoner of her family, her servants, herself. Soon she would be a prisoner of Lord Whitcliffe's, in body, at least, if not in soul.

A wave of nausea coursed through her. She threw back the covers and staggered from the bed, desperate to find the wash basin. It wasn't where it was supposed to be. She stared in confusion at the unfamiliar furnishings surrounding her in the darkened chamber, suddenly stricken with dread.

“Good mornin', my lamb—how are we feelin' this morning?”

A tray banged down on a table and the drapes were wrenched open, flooding the chamber with a blaze of light. “Half starved, I'd wager, an' no wonder, since you hadn't the strength last night to even touch your tea and toast, you poor duck.”

A plump, gray-haired woman clucked with dismay over the untouched tray of the previous evening. Amelia's memory came rushing back in a sudden burst of clarity, eradicating her nausea and replacing it with a kind of mesmerized awe.

Oh, my God,
she thought, feeling a dizzying infusion of both elation and fear.
What on earth have I done?

“Did you sleep all right?” asked Lizzie.

She nodded.

Lizzie regarded her doubtfully. “Well, those circles under your eyes are bound to plague you for a while, what with all the excitement. Tonight I'll fix you a nice cup of warm milk and brandy, to calm your nerves and make you sleep. If that doesn't work, we'll try a conserve of red roses and rotten apple wrapped in linen, and see if it won't fade that black.”

Despite the woman's concern, Amelia hoped she wouldn't be staying another night. If Jack was able to find Percy, then it was vital she be united with him immediately. Only then would she be safe from Lord Whitcliffe and her family, who were undoubtedly doing everything they could to find her. Her father in particular would be distressed by her sudden disappearance. Although he was undoubtedly infuriated by her actions, Amelia knew he would also be desperate to know if his little girl was safe.

She swallowed thickly, fighting the tears that blurred her eyes.

“Here now, dearie, it's all right,” Lizzie cooed, alarmed by her despair. “You're safe now; me and Beaton and Mr. Jack will make sure of that. If anyone comes round lookin' for you, I'll send them runnin' with a whack of my broom against their backside.”

“Thank you, Lizzie,” said Amelia, moved by the woman's unexpected protectiveness. “You're most kind.”

“Seems to me you need a little kindness.” Lizzie went to the tray and dumped a generous amount of sugar and milk into a teacup. “Mr. Jack said you was so set on escapin' old Whitcliffe, you climbed down the church wall and crashed into some bushes. What kind of parents would force their daughter into a marriage where she'd rather risk breakin' her neck than goin' through with it?” She clucked her tongue with disapproval.

“My marrying a duke has been my mother's dearest wish from the time I was a little girl,” Amelia told her. “But for years I also thought it was a wonderfully romantic idea—until I arrived in England and actually met the dukes who were available for marriage.”

Lizzie filled what little space remained in the cup with a splash of tea and handed it to her. “A miserable lot, were they?”

“They were old and brusque and arrogant, and they made me feel as if they were lowering themselves by having anything to do with me. It was clear they were only interested in my fortune.”

The elderly housekeeper sighed as she pulled out a chair for Amelia, indicating for her to sit. “I know just what you mean.”

“For months everyone tried to convince me of how fortunate I was that Lord Whitcliffe had agreed to marry me—even though he only did so after weeks of negotiation with my father's barristers,” Amelia continued, seating herself. “And I kept trying to tell them that even if it was fortunate, I didn't want to marry him. When I finally got the courage to run away yesterday, I knew I wasn't just abandoning Lord Whitcliffe—I was abandoning my family as well.” Her voice was hollow as she finished despondently, “That is the part I cannot bear.”

“There, now,” Lizzie soothed, patting her hand. “Your family is sure to forgive and forget—time has a way of healin' even the deepest cuts.” She spread a thick layer of butter and jam onto a piece of toast. “I suppose your parents thought that even if you didn't love Whitcliffe, you'd at least learn to tolerate him. That's the way of it in most marriages, and the couples seem to get on fair enough.” Frowning at the toast, she added a hefty slice of cheese to it.

“That was their hope,” Amelia agreed. “Unfortunately, I had met someone I wanted to marry, but my parents refused to grant their permission, saying he wasn't good enough for me.” She set her tea down, untouched. “Mr. Kent is going to find him, and when we are married my parents won't be able to force me to do anything. I'll finally have control over my life.”

“Bein' married doesn't mean havin' control, at least where ladies are concerned,” Lizzie reflected. “Still, if he's fine enough to have won your heart, I'm sure he's a good man and he'll make you happy. Mr. Jack and Oliver left early this mornin' without a word, so they must have gone to fetch him.” She moved a plate heaped with fried eggs, ham, bacon, and a thick wedge of meat pie in front of Amelia. “Eat your breakfast, and then we'll see what we can do about fitting you into some of Miss Genevieve's clothes. After all, when your betrothed arrives we want you ready to receive him.”

“Do you think Mr. Kent's mother will mind if I borrow some of her things?” Amelia wondered.

“Miss Genevieve would be pleased to help you,” Lizzie assured her, “just the same as Mr. Jack and Oliver was.” Her voice was filled with warmth as she finished emphatically, “That's the way of it in this family.”

 

L
IONEL HOBSON PEERED ENQUIRINGLY OVER THE WORN
gold rims of his spectacles, the lenses of which were badly scratched and in dire need of replacement. “Forgive me, Mr. Kent,” he asked hesitantly, “did you hear me?”

Jack jerked his gaze away from the strip of azure sky he could just make out beyond the soot-crusted rooftop of the warehouse across the street and regarded his earnest young employee blankly. “What?” Realizing his error before the word had even left his lips, he quickly amended, “Pardon?”

“I'm wondering how you want me to deal with the losses we have incurred this month and last, due to the damage the
Shooting Star
suffered two weeks ago,” his London manager repeated, pushing his glasses up the considerable length of his nose for the hundredth time. He raked a fan of ink-stained fingers through his limp hair and squinted at the black columns of figures scripted with painstaking neatness into the ledger upon his desk, wondering at his employer's uncharacteristic lack of attention. “As I mentioned, the repairs on her are taking longer than we projected, with the result that we have had two of our contracts canceled. According to the shipyard, they have every man available working on her, but it will still be at least another ten days before she is seaworthy again. If she takes that long, we shall be forced to renegotiate our contract with Reynolds and Sons. Should they decide not to grant us another extension, then we shall lose that contract as well.” He nibbled anxiously upon a blackened thumb.

A dull throbbing pounded at the base of Jack's skull. Until Lionel had wrenched him from his reverie, he had been lost in contemplation of Amelia Belford's enormous eyes, which were the same intense blue as the slender ribbon of sky winking teasingly at him from above the crumbling rooftops across the street. He had left the house before she awakened that morning, anxious to take advantage of his unexpected expedition into London by meeting quickly with Hobson. Once Jack was updated and had made a perusal of his ledgers, he planned to go straight to the Marbury Club, which Miss Belford had mentioned when describing the vague accomplishments of her betrothed, Lord Philmore.

“Mr. Kent?”

Jack straightened in his chair to demonstrate that he was now truly paying attention. “Could you repeat that, Hobson?”

“If Reynolds and Sons cancels its contract with us, it will be the fifth contract we have lost in the past six months.” Lionel enunciated the words slowly, as if he thought his employer was having difficulty with his hearing.

Jack frowned. Each contract represented thousands of pounds, and it was money badly needed to meet his payments to the bank and his employees. If the sabotage upon his ships continued at this rate, North Star Shipping would be bankrupt before the year was out.

And all the money that Haydon and his associates had so generously invested in Jack's fledgling shipping business would be lost.

“Any word from the police on who the hell is vandalizing my ships?”

Lionel shook his head. “Police Inspector Sanger, who is in charge of the case in London, says he is working on several leads, but has nothing concrete as yet.”

Of course not, Jack reflected bitterly.

When he had initially reported the vandalism of his ships in London and Inverness, the police in both cities had reacted with infuriating disinterest. They reluctantly agreed to investigate, which entailed questioning some drunken sailors at the docks to see if they had noticed anything unusual on the nights of the wreckage, then filing a report concluding nothing was amiss. Haydon had tried to convince Jack that this was merely the normal ineptitude of the justice system at work, but Jack believed the police's indifference was rooted deeper. As one of the “urchin wards” of the Marquess of Redmond, as he and his brothers and sisters had come to be known, his criminal background was renowned. The authorities' nonchalance toward his problems made it clear they had no interest in assisting a former criminal—regardless of who had taken him in, how much money he now enjoyed, or how many years had passed since his last offense.

Respectability was a quality he could not earn, regardless of how bloody hard he tried.

“What about Quinn and the men he hired to guard my ships against further vandalism?”

“They claim to have been carefully watching the ships docked in London. They say no one boarded the
Shooting Star
or left her on the night she was vandalized except for the members of her own crew—each of whom swears he knows nothing about how the damage to her hull happened.”