The Wedding Escape (7 page)

“Now there's a catastrophe if ever I heard of one.” Lord Beardsley rested his drink on the mound of his enormous belly, which rose like the hump of a whale over the arms of his chair. “Poor Whitcliffe must be stumbling about in a daze, wondering how the hell he could have come so close to that fortune, only to have it snatched away before the papers were signed.”

“It's his own damn fault for not keeping the girl on a tight leash.” Lord Dunlop thumped his cane for effect. “I've met Miss Belford, and she is just as outspoken and uncouth as the rest of these wealthy American girls are. If Whitcliffe couldn't take measures to control her, he bloody well deserves to have her run off on her wedding day.” He banged his cane against the floor to underscore the point.

“I heard Whitcliffe boasting that Miss Belford's dowry and allowance amounted to well over half a million pounds,” said Lord Farnham. “For that amount of money, a man could learn to endure her impertinence—and that perfectly hideous accent!”

Jack took a swallow of brandy. But for his need to find out more about Viscount Philmore, he would have cheerfully wrapped his hands around Farnham's throat.

“The newspapers say Miss Belford was abducted,” said Lord Beardsley. “There is a ten-thousand-pound reward for any information leading to her being found and reunited with her family.”

“I don't believe the girl was abducted for a minute,” Lord Sullivan scoffed. “How could someone abduct a bride on her own wedding day, with hundreds of guests milling about? Wouldn't she have screamed? Wouldn't someone have heard her?”

“Maybe not.” Lord Chesley's dark little eyes narrowed with intrigue. “Perhaps whoever took her gagged her—or drugged her.”

“Then where is the ransom note?” Lord Dunlop demanded, pounding his cane furiously.

“It's possible the family had not yet received it at the time that the newspapers were printed,” suggested Lord Beardsley.

“They haven't received it because there is no ransom note.” Lord Sullivan took a long draw upon his cigar, wreathing his white head in smoke. “The silly girl has run away, and the family is too bloody embarrassed to admit it.”

“That's the trouble with these ridiculous American girls,” Lord Farnham fumed. “They flounce about over here, giving themselves airs and trying to buy titles to which they have no earthly right, and then they do nothing but whine the minute they're married and realize that a husband is part of the bargain. Lord Kemble's American wife spent the first two months of their marriage locked in her room weeping, for God's sake. Nearly drove the poor chap mad. Thank God he had his French mistress to keep him sane.”

“It seems the American heiresses' reputation for being difficult has not kept Lord Philmore from getting himself engaged to one,” Jack observed offhandedly. “Didn't I read about his betrothal in the
Morning Post
?”

“Ah, yes, and I expect we'll hear all about it shortly when he arrives for lunch,” said Lord Chesley. “He usually appears at one o'clock.”

“Fortuitous that he was finally able to snare one of those girls,” observed Beardsley. “God knows, he's been working at it long enough.”

“Edith Fanshaw seems a quiet, sensible kind of girl,” Farnham added. “If she never opened her mouth and revealed that horrid accent, you'd think she was English.”

“She has a face like a squashed cabbage,” objected Lord Sullivan with drunken candor. “And no neck whatsoever. The children she will breed will look like trolls.”

“She may not be as comely as Miss Belford,” conceded Lord Farnham, “but she won't cause Philmore any headaches, either. At any rate, I'm sure he's relieved. He couldn't have gone on much longer if Miss Fanshaw's father hadn't agreed to let him have her.”

Jack was careful to appear only mildly interested. “What do you mean?”

“Philmore has been teetering on the brink of financial ruin for years,” supplied Lord Sullivan. “Well, everyone knows it,” he snapped, scowling at the disapproving glances of the other members. “It's no great secret.”

“Sullivan is right,” agreed Lord Chesley. “Until he signed the papers with Miss Fanshaw's father yesterday, Philmore couldn't begin to cover the expenses of running his estate.”

“Or his gambling debts,” added Lord Beardsley.

“Or his taste for expensive women,” observed Lord Dunlop.

Lord Sullivan snorted with disgust. “Or expensive men.”

A strained silence fell upon the room.

“Oh, for God's sake, all of London knows about that.” He glared at the other members as if they were all imbeciles. “You can't think Kent here will be shocked by Philmore's appetite for stupid, brawny young men. He pays to bed them, then pays them again to keep their mouths shut.”

Lord Chesley scratched his nose with his little claw hand. “Obviously he hasn't been paying them enough.”

“Very little has the power to shock me anymore—except for Lord Sullivan's remarkable ability to hold his liquor.” Jack smiled and raised his glass to him, as if he thought Lord Sullivan's remarks must have been a drunken joke.

“Damned right.” Lord Sullivan clamped his cigar between his yellowing teeth and held out his glass so it could be filled once more.

“At any rate, it's good that Philmore finally caught himself an heiress,” said Lord Beardsley, trying to revive the conversation. “He needs the money desperately.”

Jack signaled for his own glass to be filled again. “But surely he inherited some wealth along with his title?”

“Any money he inherited he lost to gambling years ago,” replied Lord Farnham. “He's terrible at it, yet he can't stop himself.”

“Don't forget about those dreadful investments,” added Lord Dunlop, thumping his cane. “The fall in Great Atlantic's stock has nearly destroyed him.”

“Didn't he inherit some land?” persisted Jack. “Some sort of ancestral holding?”

“He inherited the family's country estate, with a house in dire need of repairs. But the days of living off the land are gone—as we all know.”

“Bloody agricultural depression,” growled Lord Sullivan. “Ten years and it's still got us landowners by the throat.”

“There won't be any end to it,” predicted Lord Beardsley, morosely staring into his drink. “Foreign produce floods our shores every day. Damned American wheat has practically killed English wheat farming.”

“I've reduced the rents of my tenant farmers so many times, I might as well pay them to live on my lands,” grumbled Lord Chesley.

“It's either reduce their rents or lose them altogether,” Lord Beardsley pointed out, “and there's no one to take their place.”

“Young men go to the cities now,” reflected Lord Dunlop. “Can't make money as a farmer.”

“In the meantime, the costs of running our estates keep escalating. Every time it rains I think my roof is going to come crashing down.” Lord Sullivan huffed with annoyance. “It takes over forty pots just to catch the drips.”

Although Haydon had managed to elude the financial strain of the current agricultural depression by making shrewd investments in industry years earlier, Jack was not unfamiliar with the economic difficulties of the landed gentry. Repairs and maintenance for their ancestral homes were exorbitant, and could only be contemplated once the countless daily expenses of upkeep had been addressed.

Obviously whatever Viscount Philmore was collecting on his rents could not begin to address the constant hemorrhage of his crumbling estate. If one combined that with his gambling debts, failed investments, and assorted vices, it was no wonder he had scurried to find another heiress the minute his seduction of Amelia had failed. God forbid he might actually try to find himself a job, Jack reflected contemptuously. Not even the threat of financial ruin could rouse these aristocrats to join the ranks of the working class. They believed it was far easier to marry wealth than to earn it—even if that meant enduring a bride for whom they harbored nothing but disdain. Marriage to an heiress would enable Philmore to settle his debts and restore his estate.

All while he indulged in his taste for men.

Abruptly, Jack set down his glass.

“You're not leaving?” Lord Sullivan's expression was genuinely mournful.

“Come, Kent,” said Lord Chesley, “you've only just arrived.”

“Lunch will be served shortly.” Lord Beardsley tried to entice him. “I understand larded guinea fowl is on the menu.”

“I'm afraid my visit to London is too brief to permit me to stay,” Jack explained. “I have some business matters to attend to, and then must leave for Inverness. Perhaps another time.”

He thought he detected a flash of envy, as if they wished that they had somewhere of consequence to go, where they would be called upon to make decisions of import. But in the next moment their expressions were resigned and blank once more. They sank into their deeply padded chairs and signaled for the footman to bring them another round of drinks, preparing to get more inebriated before they had to rouse themselves for the serving of their six-course lunch.

 

T
O THE HOUSE, OLIVER.” JACK SLAMMED THE DOOR
of his carriage shut.

Oliver regarded him curiously from his driver's seat. “Did ye find him, then?”

“He wasn't there.”

“Did ye get his address?”

“No.”

Oliver folded his arms across his skeletal chest and waited.

“Are ye fixin' to tell me what's made yer temper so black, or are we goin' to sit here awhile an' enjoy the sights?” he asked finally.

“My temper isn't black.” In truth Jack felt dangerously close to smashing something. “Lord Philmore wasn't there, but he is due to make an appearance shortly for lunch.” His voice was dripping with acrimony. “I learned enough about him to realize that he is not a suitable match for Miss Belford. I intend to tell her so.”

Oliver raised a quizzical brow. “Do ye now? And just what is it, exactly, about his lordship has brought ye to this decision?”

“Lord Philmore has found himself another heiress to wed.”

“So?”

“So Miss Belford can't very well expect him to marry her when it was announced in the newspapers today that he intends to marry someone else.”

“Seems to me that's nae your decision to make, lad,” Oliver argued. “The lass didna ask ye to decide for her whether ye thought the match was good or no. All she asked was that ye find her precious viscount an' take her to him, plain and simple. An' that's what ye agreed to do.”

“That was before.”

“Afore what?”

Jack hesitated. “Before I discovered that her precious viscount is a man who is apparently without funds or honor.” He decided to spare Oliver the more sordid details of Philmore's character.

Oliver chuckled. “Ye've been away at sea too long, lad. There's more honor amongst thieves than amongst those rich nobs, an' that's the sad truth o' the matter.”

“Haydon is honorable.”

“Aye, he is. But his lordship is nae like the others. That's always been plain enough, I think.”

“I don't like the fact that Philmore was so quick to bag himself another heiress the moment he realized Miss Belford was no longer available. If he actually cared for her, he would have at least had the decency to wait before chasing after another rich woman.”

Oliver cocked a white brow with amusement. “So 'tis his timin' that's stuck like a bone in yer gorge, and nae else.”

Jack stared out the carriage window and said nothing.

“Think for a moment, lad,” Oliver urged. “If ye return to Miss Amelia now an' tell her ye didna meet with her betrothed because ye've found that he's gone and gotten himself another bride, how do ye suppose she's goin' to react? Do ye think she's goin' to thank ye for decidin' she best not see him?”

“Yes.”

Oliver snorted, exasperated. “Ye're nae thinkin' clear. 'Tis more like she'll tell ye ye're wrong, and demand ye take her to him straightaway. If ye refuse, she'll find him herself. An' how do ye suppose he'll react if the lass just shows up on his doorstep with nae warnin'—maybe while his bonny new bride-to-be is there?”

That would be disastrous, Jack realized. Not just because Philmore would be caught unawares and might react unpleasantly, but also because there would be others present—servants, or even one of Philmore's lovers—who might be tempted to turn Amelia in. With ten thousand pounds being offered for information leading to her whereabouts, her situation was extremely precarious.

“Whatever blather ye've heard, ye've nae way of knowin' for certain whether this Philmore cares for Miss Amelia or not. Who knows? He might break his betrothal and marry Miss Amelia instead.”

“He was only interested in Amelia for her money,” Jack told him with absolute certainty. “Since she no longer has any, Philmore won't marry her. If those men in there are even half right about his financial situation, he can't afford to marry her.”

“Seems to me ye're nae considerin' he might actually care for her,” Oliver argued. “Surely ye can see how rare bonny she is. Even old Beaton could see that, an' he was completely stewed.”

Jack said nothing.

“Ye'd best hope Philmore does decide to marry her,” Oliver continued. “If he doesna, then just what, exactly, are ye plannin' to do with her?”

Jack shifted restlessly against his seat. He could hardly leave Amelia alone at Haydon and Genevieve's home. But he couldn't hang about London looking after her, and he certainly couldn't take her back to Scotland with him. Reluctant reason began to temper his disgust with Philmore.

“Fine. I'll meet Philmore and tell him Amelia is in London, and I'll arrange for him to see her. But he mustn't know who I am. I can't risk having him or someone else track her back to Haydon and Genevieve's house. No one must know where she is staying.”