The Wedding Escape (8 page)

“Surely ye dinna think Philmore would betray her?”

“There is a ten-thousand-pound reward being offered for information leading to her discovery. While Philmore won't care about that now that he has another heiress to support him, he might let it slip that I know where she is to someone who finds her reward tempting. I can't take that chance. Also, I don't want Haydon or Genevieve associated in any way with Amelia's disappearance.”

“So it's a disguise ye're needin', is it?”

Jack nodded. “Philmore is due to arrive shortly for lunch, which gives us a couple of hours to prepare. Do you think that is enough time?”

The old man's mouth split into a grin. “I've just the place, lad.”

 

H
E KNOWS.” LORD FARNHAM NERVOUSLY TWISTED
the tip of his beard. “We have to call it off.”

“No.”

“For God's sake, Spalding, are you mad?” Farnham's gaze darted anxiously around the dining room before he hissed fiercely,
“He knows.”

“Kent doesn't know a goddamn thing.”

Lord Spalding paused as a footman filled his wineglass, moodily contemplating Jack's unexpected arrival at the club. Spalding had been startled to see him, but quickly decided Kent was merely there to assure the members that all was well with his precious shipping company.

Appearances, as Spalding understood only too well, were half the battle.

“He may be suspicious, but he doesn't know anything for certain,” Spalding continued once the servant was gone. “The plan goes ahead as scheduled.” He sawed vigorously at a thick slab of gray beef.

“At least call off tonight—let's wait until he has left London,” urged Lord Farnham.

“If we wait for him to leave, we may lose our chance to strike. I won't do that. This is a war, Farnham, and in war you have to hit your enemy hard and fast, again and again, until he is destroyed.” Spalding shoveled a forkful of fatty meat into his mouth, then cringed. Why the hell did that bloody French chef cook beef until it had the taste and texture of boot leather?

“It doesn't seem that we're having any effect,” objected Lord Farnham, shifting restlessly in his chair. “We're taking enormous risks, yet North Star Shipping continues to do well.”

“Of course Kent claims it is doing well—he doesn't want anyone to know how badly his company has been hit,” Spalding countered impatiently. “The fact is he has already lost several contracts, and he cannot afford to lose any more. If word of that gets out, his investors will become nervous.” He swallowed a mouthful of wine before finishing darkly, “After tonight, the filthy little upstart will have difficulty convincing anyone that their goods are safe on one of his goddamn tramp ships.”

 

B
RILLIANT GARLANDS OF MELON AND COPPER SUN-
light flickered upon the stone façade of the Marbury Club as Jack and Oliver sat sweating within the dark heat of the carriage.

“By the toes of Saint Andrew, if he doesna come out soon, I swear I'm marchin' in there and draggin' him out myself,” grumbled Oliver, shifting against his seat. “How long does it take a man to eat?”

“I imagine he is celebrating his newfound fortune with his fellow members by buying them drinks with his bride's money.” Jack twisted his rough woolen cap in his hands and continued to wait impatiently for Lord Philmore to emerge.

The ill-fitting clothes he had purchased from a shabby little shop far from the elegant enclave of Mayfair were cheap and poorly made, which was exactly what he had wanted. The loose brown trousers and coat were of crudely stitched wool, and the coarse cotton shirt beneath was thin and turning yellow. His polished leather boots had been replaced with an ugly pair of shoes that pinched his feet, but they were the largest the shop had. To complete his appearance Jack had rubbed his hands, face and outfit with a liberal application of dirt and grease. If Philmore was the kind of man Jack suspected he was, he would look no further than Jack's clothes to judge and dismiss him in one swift glance.

“He could be in there hours yet,” Oliver muttered irritably. “Why don't ye just march in there an' tell his lordship ye've another bride waitin' for him, an' if he wants her ye can have her delivered to him safe an' sound by tonight?”

“There he is.” Jack watched as a slender man of modest height emerged from the heavy doors of the Marbury Club. He wore a tailored charcoal coat over a crisply starched shirt and cravat, from which an enormous ruby pin winked in the sunshine. A silver-capped walking stick was tucked jauntily under one arm, and he was pulling on a cream-colored pair of leather gloves as he trotted down the stone staircase to his carriage, his buffed shoes tapping lightly beneath his graceful movements, his face set in the same self-satisfied expression Jack had seen in the newspaper that morning.

“What are ye waitin' for?” demanded Oliver impatiently. “Go talk to him afore he leaves—an' dinna forget to take the polish off yer tongue!”

Cramming his cap onto his head, Jack leapt down and raced over to Philmore's carriage.

“What the devil do you think you're doing?” demanded Viscount Philmore as Jack jerked open his carriage door and climbed inside. “Here now—get out at once!”

“Shut yer gob and listen,” Jack growled.

“Help!” cried Philmore, rapping the wall that separated him from his sleepy driver.

Misinterpreting the meaning of the agitated rap, the driver snapped the reins over the horses and the carriage lurched forward.

“What do you want?” asked Viscount Philmore nervously, scooting like a frightened bug away from Jack.

His cheeks and forehead were barely lined, indicating he was younger than Jack had initially thought, perhaps thirty-five or so, but no more. Yet there was a priggishness to him that made him seem older. It was as if all the whimsy and daring of his youth had been either frightened or beaten out of him at an early age, replacing it with a fussy, supercilious demeanor that Jack found patently ridiculous. Of course it was possible Philmore had always been that way, but Jack couldn't imagine any self-respecting lad being quite so timid. How could this frightened little mannequin be the man with whom Amelia fancied herself in love? He supposed Philmore was handsome enough, with his neatly clipped red hair peering from beneath the shiny black of his hat and his fastidiously maintained mustache curled ever so slightly at the ends. Jack was no authority on what women found appealing in a man, but he was not so blinded by contempt that he could not concede that Philmore was not unattractive.

Even so, the cowering little dandy was hardly the kind of man that Jack would have chosen for a highly spirited, independent-minded woman like Amelia.

“I'll give you everything I have in my billfold,” Lord Philmore bleated, slipping a gloved hand into his coat pocket. “Will that satisfy you?”

“I don't want yer money,” Jack replied tersely. “I've a message for you.”

Panic rounded Lord Philmore's eyes into two tea saucers. “I told Hawkins I would pay him as soon as I'm able,” he blurted out desperately. “He just has to be patient a little longer—”

“I'm not here about that,” Jack snarled. “I'm here about Amelia Belford.”

Lord Philmore's expression puckered with confusion. “Amelia? I haven't seen her in months. Of course I read in the paper that she was abducted yesterday—surely you don't think that I had anything to do with that!” His expression grew agitated. “I swear to you, I know nothing whatsoever about—”

“I'm here to give ye a message from her.”

Lord Philmore withdrew a white linen kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the moisture beading on his brow. “What message?”

Everything about Lord Philmore disgusted Jack, from his twitching mustache to his sexual inclinations to his frantic protestations of ignorance. No wonder Amelia's parents had been appalled when she informed them that she was betrothed to the quivering squirrel. At least Whitcliffe's arrogance gave him some small measure of backbone.

Lord Philmore momentarily paused in his ministrations to his forehead. “Did Amelia send you to me?”

Jack hesitated. And then, remembering it was Amelia's wish to be reunited with her viscount, he reluctantly answered, “Yes.”

A flicker of something lit Philmore's eyes. “Where is she?”

The fact that his first enquiry wasn't regarding her immediate welfare bothered Jack. Shouldn't his initial concern be whether or not she had been harmed?

“She's in London,” Jack replied vaguely. “She wants to see you.”

There it was again. Something was bubbling in Lord Philmore's mind, but whatever it was, he was clever enough to try to mask it in Jack's presence.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Where shall I go to see her?”

“I'll bring her to yer home. Make sure there's no one else there, an' wait 'til we come.”

“I'm afraid that won't do,” Lord Philmore protested. “I have an engagement.”

Jack regarded him incredulously. “Cancel it.”

“Unfortunately, that is impossible.” His forehead sufficiently dabbed, Philmore carefully folded the linen square and replaced it in his pocket. “I am the guest of honor, you see. But that does not mean I am not most anxious to see Miss Belford,” he quickly assured Jack. “It just means we shall have to make alternate arrangements.” He pulled a small card from his coat pocket and began to write upon it with a gold pencil. “If you would be so kind as to give this note to Miss Belford,” he continued, slipping the card into an envelope, “it will tell her exactly where we should meet.”

Jack took the creamy stationery in his grimy hand, smearing it with grease in the process.

“Here is something for your trouble.” Lord Philmore dropped a half crown in Jack's hand, taking care not to mar the pristine finger of his glove as he did so, then rapped twice on the carriage floor, signaling for the driver to stop.

Jack stared at the silver coin resting against his grubby, callused palm. He had done everything he had said he would. He had found Amelia's betrothed and arranged for them to meet. If all went well, she would be back in her soul mate's arms that very evening, leaving Jack free to return to Inverness and get on with directing the affairs of his shipping business. He should have felt profoundly relieved.

Instead he climbed down from the carriage filled with self-loathing, as if he had just betrayed his runaway heiress.

Chapter Four

M
AKE WAY—COMIN' THROUGH!”

Blinded by a tower of boxes, Beaton barreled through the doorway and crashed directly into Jack. The impact had little effect on Jack other than to further irritate him. Poor Beaton, however, fell unceremoniously on his backside while trying to shield himself from a shower of gaily colored packages.

“Bloody hell!” he yelped. “Them boxes is sharp!”

“Beaton, quit your dawdling and bring them new things up here,” ordered Lizzie impatiently from the top of the staircase. “Oh, hello, Mr. Jack,” she added, seeing Jack staring at her in astonishment. “Pardon the mess, we wasn't expectin' you home quite so soon—here now, what's happened to you? You look as if you've been slatherin' grease in the shipyards!”

“What the devil is going on here, Lizzie?” Jack demanded.

“Me and Beaton are tryin' to fix up Miss Belford with a nice new wardrobe, just like you said.” Looking frazzled, Lizzie scooped up four more gowns, two velvet cloaks and a beaded shawl that were draped carelessly upon the banister and disappeared back into Amelia's bedroom.

“Looks more like ye're fixin' her up with ten new wardrobes,” chortled Oliver, eyeing the boxes and parcels strewn throughout the entrance hall, library, and dining room of the main floor.

Most of the packages were open, revealing what Jack felt certain was enough feminine attire to clothe the entire city of London. Expensive gowns, cloaks, and crinolines were haphazardly draped over chairs and doorways, while the floors were choked with elegantly fashioned shoes, boots, gloves and reticules in every shade of leather, silk, satin and linen imaginable.

“I told you to get Miss Belford a wardrobe?” he demanded, turning to Beaton.

“Well, of course you did.” Beaton pulled himself awkwardly up from the scattered packages. “Miss Belford told us so. She said you didn't want her goin' off to meet her betrothed in rags, and as there was nothing suitable in Lady Redmond's wardrobe, she asked me and Lizzie to go out and collect a few things for her. She made a list and told us which shops to visit, so as to be sure to bring back things to her likin'.” He fished a crumpled ball of paper from his coat pocket with a long list written in delicate handwriting upon it. “I've been driving back and forth all day, pickin' things up and takin' things back.”

“And just how, exactly, did you pay for them?”

“Why, I put them on your account, just like Miss Belford told me to.” Beaton fumbled through his pockets and produced a half dozen more wrinkled slips of paper. “There's a few receipts there, and of course there's more in the boxes, and Lizzie's got a stack of them upstairs in Miss Belford's room. You needn't worry though,” he quickly added as Jack's eyes widened at the exorbitant sums at the bottom of each bill. “I told the shopkeepers the items were for Lady Redmond, so they wouldn't be suspicious.” He gave Jack a conspiratorial wink.

“Canna imagine Miss Genevieve ever buyin' a houseful of clothes like this,” mused Oliver, gazing around at the explosion of garments. “Once ye've learned to measure every purchase by how many meals ye might have made from it, ye can nae spend on somethin' fine without feelin' a wee bit o' guilt first.”

“Genevieve would never buy all these clothes—first because she would be incensed by their excessiveness, and second because she and Haydon couldn't bloody well afford them.” Jack stalked angrily up the stairs, nearly tripping over the waterfall of boxes as he went.

“This one won't do either, I'm afraid.” Amelia frowned at the gown she was holding up to the mirror. “The sleeves are too tight, the hem is too long, and these tiers of roses are entirely too large. Also, it is far too bright a pink; I'm afraid my complexion calls for a rosier shade.” She tossed the offending garment onto the enormous pile of equally objectionable fashions upon the bed, then went to take the next gown Lizzie held out to her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Belford.” Jack fought to remain calm as he scanned the litter of expensive garments scattered about the room. “I see you've had no trouble keeping yourself occupied during my absence.”

“Oh, thank goodness you're back!” Amelia cried, rushing toward him.

She was clad only in a dressing gown of pale peach silk, which was loosely cinched about her tiny waist and gaping just enough to reveal a hint of creamy bosom and the ivory corset laced tight beneath it. Her pale blond hair had been pinned into a loose arrangement atop her head, but the exertion of trying on dozens of gowns had left numerous tendrils dangling in wispy spirals around her face, giving her a charmingly disheveled look. She wore stockings but no shoes, despite the fact that there must have been over a hundred pairs in the house, and Jack found her unadorned little feet strangely entrancing as they peeked out from the hem of her robe.

“I was worried when I awakened and realized you were gone,” Amelia confessed softly. “I didn't know whether you would come back.”

He stared at her in bewilderment. Had she honestly believed that he would simply abandon her? The delicate scent of her was flooding his senses, a light fragrance of sunlight and soap touched with a hint of orange and some tangy clean flower he could not identify. The violet shadows beneath her eyes had faded slightly, and the dozens of scratches on her hands looked less raw. Her spirit was clearly stronger than it had been the previous night when he had found her lying curled upon the bed with tears sparkling upon her lashes. And yet there was an aching vulnerability to her, which pierced his anger with the efficacy of an arrow.

“Did you find Percy?”

Disappointment sliced through him.

“Yes.” His tone was unaccountably brusque.

“I knew you would!” she exclaimed, ecstatic. She reached out as if she meant to hug him, then frowned. “Why are you dressed like that—and how did you get so dirty?”

“I thought it best that your precious Percy not know who I was.”

“Why not?”

“I take it, Miss Belford, that you have not read today's newspaper.”

“I've been much too busy to read the paper.” Amelia gestured in frustration at the heaps of garments strewn around her. “I've been trying to put together an adequate wardrobe for myself since early this morning, and I'm afraid it has not been easy.”

“So I see. And just how, may I ask, do you expect to pay for all of this?”

“Is that what has made you so angry?” She looked genuinely taken aback. “The fact that I sent out for a few outfits?”

“This is not a few outfits,” Jack observed tautly. “This is the annual production of some two hundred or more seamstresses, hatters, leather-goods manufacturers, and cobblers, which could easily outfit the entire city of London for the next five years!”

“I'll just be seein' what's happened to Beaton.” Lizzie hastily snatched up a few discarded gowns and bustled out the door.

Amelia's gaze remained riveted on Jack, but the color of her eyes had cooled, like the ocean darkening before a storm. “I had nothing to wear.” Her voice was deliberately measured, making it clear he did not intimidate her in the least. “I could scarcely present myself to my betrothed in rags, wearing a ruined wedding gown that was designed for my marriage to another man. Did you expect me to go to Viscount Philmore looking like this?” She skimmed the tips of her fingers over the loose dressing gown she wore, which was now tantalizingly close to falling open.

The idea of her idiot viscount, or any other man for that matter, seeing her in her current state of undress only inflamed Jack's anger.

“I told you that you could help yourself to any of my mother's clothes,” he returned evenly. “Surely there were enough outfits there from which you could choose that you did not have to empty every shop in London in your quest to find a suitable gown.”

“Lady Redmond and I are not the same size,” Amelia pointed out, “and her wardrobe is not—”

“Not what?” Jack interrupted. “Expensive enough to suit a spoiled American heiress, because most of the clothes have been designed by my sister instead of some pretentious French fool, and sewn in a modest little shop in Inverness instead of in some salon in Paris?”

“No, Mr. Kent.” Amelia tilted her head up so she could meet his glare with her own. “Your mother has excellent taste, and your sister is obviously a very talented designer. I could not wear her clothes because they did not fit. As for the cost of my wardrobe, I assure you that I intend to pay for it myself. As soon as I am reunited with Lord Philmore, I will make certain you are generously compensated for all the trouble you have gone to on my behalf. My Percy is a gentleman, and would never permit either a kindness or a debt to go unpaid.”

“You're wrong,” Jack snarled, infuriated by the veiled inference that he was somehow less of a gentleman than her simpering little betrothed. “Your precious Percy is bloody well up to his eyeballs in debt, and would gladly let anyone pay them on his behalf—even a naive young girl who is nothing more to him than a quick and easy way to flood his bank account with money he could never have dreamed of getting his hands on otherwise, short of gambling for it, which he does rather badly, or stealing it.”

“How dare you!” Amelia balled up her fists as if she meant to strike him. “First of all, Mr. Kent, I am not the naive young girl you seem to think I am, and secondly, Percy doesn't care about money—and neither do I!”

“That's because you have never known what it is not to have any.”

“And neither, apparently, have you!” she retaliated, sweeping her arms around the elegantly appointed bedchamber.

Jack stared at her in surprise. She didn't know about him, he realized. Didn't know about his childhood, which forever branded him as a filthy, ignorant thief, no matter how hard he tried to wrest himself above the stench and the squalor. She had no concept of the things he had been forced to do to survive—of the brutal beatings he had endured and later inflicted, of the stealing and lies, of the constant need to fight for food and clothing and shelter, all while desperately scrambling to keep from being killed and out of jail.

She didn't know anything about him at all.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, feeling as if he had momentarily lost his bearings. He raked his hand through his hair, feeling hopelessly ill-equipped to handle the situation. “Sometimes I say things without thinking.” He shrugged helplessly.

Amelia frowned, studying him. She was not terribly familiar with the garb of the lower-class people in London, but she was amazed at how convincing Jack looked in his shabby coat and trousers. Most men she knew would have appeared ridiculously out of place in the coarse, poorly sewn attire. Certainly Percy was too finely boned and softly fleshed to ever play the part of a man who earned his living through physical exertion.

With his powerful frame straining against the poorly tailored shirt and coat and his rough-cut jaw smeared with grime, Jack Kent seemed every inch the contemptuous laborer he was pretending to be. His hands were huge and bronzed by the sun, the calluses upon his palms making it clear he was a man well accustomed to hard physical labor. His eyes were filled with scorn as he spoke of her betrothed, and she sensed that it was not just Percy whom he despised, but all those of his class. This was bewildering, given that her host was obviously accustomed to a life of privilege. She continued to stare at him, intrigued by the paradox of his emotions, and the lengths to which he had gone to ensure that Percy would not learn of his identity. She suspected Jack had done this to protect her, although she believed his efforts to be misguided, Percy would never permit her to come to harm. But there was a constant wariness to the man standing before her, a cool distrust that shadowed the hard gray of his eyes. Her gaze fell upon the thin white scar snaking along his left cheek. Somehow that pale streak touched a chord within her. She found herself wanting to touch him, to lay her hand upon his cheek and feel its roughness beneath her palm, to soothe his anger and contempt with the coolness of her fingers, and know the pulsing heat of him against her skin.

She turned away abruptly, self-consciously tightening the sash of her robe.

“What did you mean when you asked if I had read today's paper?” she asked stiffly.

Jack hesitated. It would be painful for her to hear, he realized. “Viscount Philmore has found himself another bride. This morning's paper announced his engagement to a Miss Edith Fanshaw.”

She whirled about, her expression outraged. “You are mistaken.” Her voice was brittle.

“I can send Beaton out to buy a copy of the
Morning Post
if you doubt me. The members of the Marbury Club were discussing the news when I went there. They were under the impression that Philmore is suffering from severe financial strain, and that his engagement to Miss Fanshaw comes at a most opportune time. It seems she is also an heiress from America.”

“I know Edith Fanshaw,” Amelia informed him in a tight voice. “Her father is Arthur Fanshaw of Baltimore, and although he has some holdings of import in Chicago real estate, the Fanshaws do not possess any great wealth.”

“Evidently they possess enough to make a marriage to their daughter palatable,” Jack observed. “Philmore has agreed to marry her.”

“He cannot be doing it of his own free will,” Amelia decided. “Something has happened—some dreadful calamity has forced him to do this.”

“He's doing it because he hasn't got any money, and when he marries Miss Fanshaw that little problem will be instantly solved.”

“I don't believe that Percy hasn't any money, but even if he doesn't, I don't care. He loves me, and I love him. Once he knows that I have run away from Lord Whitcliffe to be with him, he will break his betrothal to Miss Fanshaw and marry me instead.”