The Wedding Runaway (2 page)

Servants had piled salvaged pewter plates and cups in the middle of the drive. Not that there was much. The valuable plate and antiques had been sold off long ago
,
before he
'
d married to restore wealth to the estate.

A well-appointed traveling coach swayed up the drive. No markings or crest adorned the mahogany paneled doors. His father-in-law.

Dread poured through Victor
'
s veins. Dread
,
guilt, and regret. The fire followed the argument he
'
d had with his wife. The last argument he
'
d ever have with his wife. Victor
'
s hand closed around the deformed lance head. The edge cut into his palm and reminded him how badly he
'
d failed her.

Now he had to face his father-in-law and tell him his daughter was dead
,
and Victor hadn
'
t been able to save her. He
'
d carried her kicking and screaming from the blazing rooms
,
once. She
'
d dashed back in
,
and he hadn
'
t succeeded in pulling her out a second time.

His portly father-in-law descended from the carriage.
"
What a disaster.
"
He shook his head
,
took a surveying look
,
and pronounced
,
"
We
'
ll rebuild
,
grander than before.
"

"
I should rather not.
"
Still affected by the smoke he
'
d swallowed
,
Victor
'
s voice rasped.
"
It is done. I have no good memories of this place
,"
and no heirs for which to preserve it.

Victor would be the last Earl of Wedmont, unless a distant cousin was found after his demise. His father had littered plenty of by-blows across England
,
but he couldn
'
t be bothered to sire more legitimate children. Victor would never marry again. He
'
d failed grandly enough the first time.

He dropped the warped metal
,
wiped his sooty palms against his thighs
,
and crossed to his wife
'
s father. As he neared him, he saw the swollen red eyes of a man who
'
d been crying. Did he know? Suspect?

As Victor drew up close
,
the older man threw his arms around him and clapped him on the back.

"
I know
,
I know. I stopped by the church and spoke with the vicar. I know you tried to get her out.
"

Victor had tried. Tried to make his marriage work
,
tried to love his wife
,
tried to stave off the madness that made her crazed. One out of three wasn
'
t a raving success.

"
You were a good husband to my gel. I di'n
'
t think you would be
,
what with your gambling and you needing my money and all to save your bacon. You toffs ain
'
t expected to keep to your wife
,
but you did.
"

His father-in-law clapped him on the back and held him in his arms
,
while sniffling and singing qualified praises. Victor wanted to sink through the ground. Using his wife
'
s money to pay for whores or a mistress had been beyond even his limited moral code. And he
'
d supported himself with his gambling too many years to find much pleasure in it these days.

Although he found himself longing for his bachelor days
,
with a bottle of Madeira at his elbow and a flush of cards in his hand. He wanted simpler times and simpler pleasures and to return to his old haunts.

Victor bit his tongue so hard it bled. His main vice these days was spitting out whatever caustic thought entered his head. Would that he had bit his tongue off a week ago rather than say what he
'
d said to Mary Frances.

"
I know you brought in the best doctors to work with her
,"
the older man said.

"
Should have had them work with me.
"
If he had any inkling that she would burn the place down
,
he never would have provoked her. But then his mouth had always been his downfall.

"
There now. I know you
'
re blue-deviled
,
now.
"
Mr. Chandler released him but continued to paw his shoulder affectionately.
"
Time heals all wounds.
"

Victor shook his head.
"
Not all wounds. What...
"
he let his voice trail off. Whatever had brought on Mary Frances
'
s madness
,
whatever past injury turned her into a clawing
,
biting shrew at the most inopportune moments didn
'
t need to be discussed now...or ever. It wouldn
'
t bring her back. It wouldn
'
t help him to help her. She was beyond help now
,
beyond wounding now. His destruction of her was complete.

"
I hoped you and Mary Frances might have given me grandchildren—
"

Victor snorted. His wounds were still fresh.

"
—but you
'
re a young man still and you can marry again and get children.
"

"
I have a daughter.
"
That he could not claim.

"
You need sons. Sons to take over my businesses
,
a son to carry on your title.
"

Victor winced. His wife wasn
'
t in her grave yet. Of course
,
if she
'
d lived he would never have had any children by her. A wave of guilt swept over him. His father-in-law apparently still thought of him as his heir.
"
You are not so old." Victor told his father-in-law. "You should remarry and sire your own sons.
"

Harold Chandler shook his head.
"
No
,
no. Mary Frances never told you
,
did she?
"

"
What?
"
Was there something Victor should have known? A clue that would have explained his wife
'
s insanity? A bit of information that would help him make sense of it all?

"
My wife Mary is still alive. Gave me five children
,
she did
,
but Mary Frances is the only one
,
what lived to be full grown. Good woman, my wife.
"

Where was she now? In almost four years of marriage to Mary Frances
,
Victor had never heard mention of her mother. He
'
d assumed she
'
d passed away
,
but was she chained to a wall in an asylum somewhere? Bedlam? Was that where Mary Frances got her madness? Victor stared at his father-in-law.

"
She
'
s in Newgate Prison.
"

"
For arson?
"
Victor inquired. Perhaps starting fires ran in the family.

~*~

Lydia
'
s head thrummed and her stomach churned as she tried to reach through the throng of male bodies and get her markers down in a hedge bet. She had her main bet down
,
but Hazard was one of the few games where smart betting and hedging guaranteed winning.

A few of the men crowding the gaming hell could have done with a little better hygiene. She edged away from a short man wearing a stained shirt. By the time she got repositioned
,
it was too late to get down her hedge bet.

Too much wine clouded her head. Laying her bets was hard enough
,
let alone remembering the odds and how to play the dice throws.

The thrower crabbed out and the dice were thrust in her hand as her large bet disappeared off the table. Fiddlesticks!

Her heart in her throat
,
she pitched the dice on the table. Throwing the dice made her the center of very rowdy attention. She had been in disguise for nearly four months now and the crowds in London had grown until this
hell
on a Friday evening was stuffed beyond capacity. But then London thronged with houses
,
shops
,
museums
,
churches and manufactories. People
,
carriages
,
horses and carts crowded the streets
,
while a gray haze of coal smoke hung over it all.

In this exclusively male environment
,
the men jostled and shouldered and smacked each other like a pack of puppies. She expected that at any second one of them would reach over and nip her on the ear.

Lydia had done a credible job posing as a young man. She had the walk
,
her voice was naturally low
,
and she and Jenny had giggled all the way through the construction of a stuffed male member
,
now sown to her drawers. But that she couldn
'
t quite manage to force her way through a crowd hampered her ability to bet effectively. She desperately needed her funds increased. Living in London as a carefree young man taxed her finite amount of money. Unlike her brothers, she couldn
'
t apply to her father for more blunt to see her through.

The hard drinking required of all young men on the town left her brain muzzy. She never wanted to stand out from the crowd
,
so she drank along with her cohorts.

Finally
,
she passed the dice. Lydia concentrated on the throw. A main of six. She reached to place her markers on the table and was jostled out of the way.
"
Excuse me
,"
she muttered.

The other side of the table looked just as crowded. She swallowed and ducked under an arm. An elegant hand with long tapered fingers placed the bets she had tried to make as she watched with dismay. An elbow clipped her in the chin
,
and she reared back. The croupier called the bets and the dice were thrown.

Twelve. Double sixes. She knew exactly what to bet for a sure win. She ducked and squiggled her way to the table and her hand collided with the hand placing the same bets. She followed the line of the hand
,
up a black sleeve
,
to a stare at a man taller than she.

He gave her a mocking smile
,
if you could call it that. More just the slightest lift of his lips in a face she would call handsome
,
but for the slight air of wickedness in the lift of his winged eyebrows. His too-long walnut hair waved and curled in a studied disorder.

And she forgot to get her hedge bet down. Damn. He pulled his winnings from the table and met her stare with a slight furrowing of his brow
,
then a wink.

Heat flooded her face. Had he guessed she was female? Why the wink?

She stared at the green baize-covered table. Should she leave? But she had made good money in nights past here
,
and she needed to pay for new lodgings tomorrow or she and Jenny would be out on the streets.

London proved more expensive than she expected
,
and she hadn
'
t gotten a good exchange rate on her American dollars. Then they had been robbed.

While Lydia had been bathing
,
a thief had broken into their lodgings and stolen her main cache of sixteen hundred pounds. Lydia had dived sopping wet into her trunk. Hiding in the confined darkness, she had been as much afraid of being exposed as a girl as being caught naked
,
and she had not even tried to stop the robber.

New lodgings at a better address were necessary or Jenny
'
s mutiny would be complete and Lydia might as well go home. There had been a second hidey-hole of money
,
but Lydia had spent the evening watching it disappear off the table. Why was her luck turning bad
,
now?

All right
,
it wasn
'
t so much luck. Gambling had risks
,
but she minimized them. What she couldn
'
t do was compensate for failing to lay the necessary bets on the table. With the right wagers
,
chance determined whether she won big or won small. Frankly
,
she
'
d be happy with small wins.

Lydia elbowed her way back to the Hazard table. She ended up next to the man in black
,
the man who had placed the same bets as she did. The dice rolled up seven. She reached out with her markers. Mr. Stained Shirt shoved her away from the table.

This was growing ridiculous. As she tried to move forward
,
two burly men snagged her elbows with theirs and moved in a lockstep toward the door
,
not the front door
,
but the back door that led to a dark alley.

Fiddlesticks and banjo picks! What was happening? Where were they taking her?

Scream!
She thought
,
but bit her tongue instead. Men don
'
t scream.

"
Let me go!
"
she managed in a gulped whisper.

The men
,
one of which was the man in the stained shirt
,
didn
'
t falter.

She planted her boots
,
but they just dragged her backward as if she were the merest child. She twisted her hips and planted her boots sideways. The two men lifted her. Mr. Stained Shirt flashed her a surprised glance as if he expected her to weigh more.