Lord Holt Takes a Bride

by Vivienne Lorret

  “You know how single-minded Jane can be.”

  “—a sudden brilliant notion overtook me. I mean, there we were with a scoundrel at our disposal. We couldn’t just waste an opportunity and leave him to the elements.”

  Winnifred wondered if she was the only sane one among her friends. “You’re speaking as though you expected insects to carry him away, or for the rain to dissolve him. He’s a man, not marzipan!”

  “Precisely why I summoned you. Now that we have him, I don’t know how to get rid of him.”

  “Can we not simply . . . put him back where you found him?”

  “I’d thought of that,” Jane said, then pointed an accusatory finger at Ellie. “But she refuses to permit me to give him laudanum so that he’ll be asleep when we remove the ligatures. It is, after all, the obvious solution.”

  “You’ve already kidnapped him . . . and you were hoping to drug him as well?” Winnifred huffed. In fact, she was starting to hyperventilate. Light-headed, she imagined that it would be just her luck to die as a disappointment to her parents, suffocated by her own corset, dropping dead at the feet of the strange man tied to a chair in Southwark. “I cannot . . . afford to be . . . embroiled in a scandal. For heaven’s sake, I’m getting . . . married. Wednesday! The contracts have already been signed.”

  “It isn’t too late,” Jane said, matter of fact. “You don’t have to tether yourself to a boorish man you will never love, simply because your father has arranged it.”

  “I am obligated all the same.”

  Ellie frowned. “Surely you wish for something more than to merely endure the rest of your life. What about joy and laughter and—”

  “Stop,” Winnifred warned with a wag of her finger at both of them. She took in a steadying breath. “We are not venturing down this fruitless path again. I haven’t slept a wink ever since you mentioned your plan.”

  Jane’s eyes caught the candle flame, glimmering with midnight blue triumph. “Because you’re tempted by it. I knew you would be! And I have faith that you’ll come to your senses and run away from disaster.”

  Winnifred set her hands on her hips. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. At least my disaster won’t land me in irons.”

  “No. Yours will be worse,” Ellie said with a sniff. “You’ll be shackled in misery for the rest of your life.”

  “Again. Thank you for your support.”

  Jane laid her free hand over Winnifred’s shoulder. “Our support will be the carriage, waiting to abscond with you outside the church.”

  “But you’ll be glad to know that she’s abandoned the pigeon aspect of the plan.”

  “My brothers set them free,” Jane said with an exhausted sigh. “I cannot begin to tell you how many of my experiments they’ve ruined.”

  Winnifred snapped her fingers. “Shall we focus on our current dilemma, ladies?”

  “Oh, yes, right.”

  The three of them stared at the accidental hostage. The way he cocked his head to the side, he seemed to stare back.

  Winnifred felt a chill skitter down her spine. “Are you certain he cannot see us?”

  “Yes,” Jane offered with authority. “I had two sacks in my reticule and tried it myself. Couldn’t see anything more than shadows.”

  A harsh exhale puffed the sack out over his mouth. Almost as if he were laughing at them.

  “And you’re certain he’s fully conscious? Not injured or impaired? After all, he isn’t speaking.”

  “He’s merely being stubborn. You should have heard him curse at us when he awoke to find himself in this . . . situation.”

  Winnifred could just imagine. Her father had quite the colorful vocabulary when merely inconvenienced by traffic. The only thing that might pacify him during those moments would be if all the other carriages disappeared and he was left alone on the road.

  Hmm . . . she thought, an idea sparking to life. Then she drew her friends out of the room. “I think I’ve got a plan.”

  * * *

  Asher slipped free of the wrist bindings his captors had so helpfully loosened. Jerking the hood from his aching head, he made quick work of the other ropes. He could still hear the crunch of their carriage wheels on cobblestones. But it was fading quickly.

  In the dark room it was difficult to get his bearings. Yet there was a sliver of light bleeding in through a rip in the dusty drapes and he found his way to the window, then peered out onto the lamp-lit street. Not a soul in sight. Turning back to the room, he glimpsed the shadow of the doorway.

  Determined to catch them, he rushed through the foyer, the front door, and then burst outside with a growl in his throat.

  But there was nothing to bark at when he reached the wet pavement. There was no carriage on the narrow, winding street. And no assistance to be had from the surrounding houses either. They were nothing more than ruins, crumbling into misshapen piles of rubble.

  He cursed, wondering what time it was. The air felt damp and cool against his skin, the sky graying around the edges. He patted his waistcoat, forgetting for a moment that the engraved watch his grandfather had once given to him had been filched by Shettlemane and lost in a game of hazard years ago.

  With the reminder, Asher searched his pockets to ensure that everything was as it should be.

  A solitary cheroot—broken in half, damn it all. A bent calling card. A silk handkerchief.

  Hmm . . . nothing was missing. Apparently, those girls truly had abducted him for the purpose of answering their odd questions.

  Would you say that you’re more gentleman than scoundrel or vice versa? Do you live your life flitting from one act of debauchery to another? Have you recently attended a party at Sutherfield Terrace? Ever been in love?

  Idiots, the lot of them.

  Considering the misfortune debutantes could inflict upon an unsuspecting male, was it any wonder that he’d never been induced to marry? Never been stricken by the poetic impulses of the romantics? As far as he was concerned, a man susceptible to falling in love deserved his fate.

  Agitated, Asher straightened his coat with a tug. Now that it was over, he was even more overjoyed by the fact that he would soon be sailing away from all this utter non—

  Wait a moment . . . something wasn’t right. He shifted, stretching out his arms.

  At once he was quite aware that he didn’t feel anything up his sleeve. He began patting again, furiously. Fishing inside, he tore off his coat and jerked up his shirtsleeves, hard enough to rend seams. Nothing.

  He’d been robbed!

  “They’re worse than idiots. They’re thieves!”

  He supposed he’d been a fool to have the £1,000 he’d collected over the weeks tucked up his sleeve and ready to deliver. Yet prior lessons from his father had taught him how easy it was to filch a man’s pockets or rob his home. And the henchmen that were set on him from time to time to collect one of Shettlemane’s debts never thought to look for a money clip hooked in a cuff buttonhole.

  Apparently, the same could not be said for bluestockings.

  Rushing back into the house, he found a three-legged table with a lamp resting on top and flint and steel in the drawer beneath. He lit the taper, but his search was fruitless.

  The money for his share of the expedition and his only chance for a new life were gone.

  * * *

  By the time Asher had made his way to the Hollander townhouse, the sun had risen. So had his fury. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure if there were crimson bands of clouds on the horizon or if he was seeing everything through a murderous red haze.

  Staring out the morning room window, he recounted his tale of unfortunate events to One and Two.

  “Rotten luck,” Lord Avery Hollander—the aforementioned One—said, ruffling a hand through a widow’s peak of sandy brown hair as he slumped down onto an overstuffed chair by the hearth.

  Lord Bates Hollander—Two—launched a rust-colored pillow at his head. “Close your banyan, brother. Want me
to maw-wallop on the rug? No one wants a gander at your bits and pieces.”

  One rolled his jade-green eyes, adjusting the blue silk robe. “We’re identical twins, idiot. We’ve got the same bits.”

  “Fat lot you know. My piece happens to be much larger. Lady Clarksdale couldn’t stop her roving eye at dinner last night.”

  “Because you had your shirt bunched in your trousers like you were still in nappies.” He fired the pillow back at his brother. “Honestly, Holt, I cannot wait until the ship sails, just so I can push this inferior spare overboard.”

  “Well, we won’t be sailing until Wednesday next,” Two said, launching the pillow back with enough force to earn a grunt out of the other.

  Prophesizing that he was about to become embroiled in another infantile Hollander battle, Asher stepped between the chairs and snatched the pillow from the air, ready to smother the pair of them. “And what, precisely, is the reason for the delay?”

  “The captain said he’s superstitious,” Two answered with a disgruntled shrug. “Saw a black cat yesterday or something of the sort. Not only that but everyone knows you don’t set sail when the sky’s red. Looks like a storm’s headed our way.”

  Asher looked again to the window. “Then I’ve got a week to get the money.”

  “Not that I have my doubts or anything, but that’s a tall order. Even for you,” One said, not unkindly.

  “It’s a shame those girls kidnapped you just to rob you. I’d have wanted them to have their way with me first.”

  As a matter of principle, Asher fired the pillow at Bates’s head. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw yesterday’s newspaper, lying open on the mahogany Pembroke table. Precisely to the page announcing the wedding of the heiress and her vulgar dowry.

  With a sudden burst of recollection, the conversation between the two nitwits who’d abducted him and their late-arriving cohort played through his pia mater like the echoes of a mockingbird. And a plan started to form out of the ruins they’d left him in.

  Sometimes there was only one way to deal with a thief . . . and that was to become one.

  Asher was going to get his money back one way or the other.

  Chapter 4

  Winnifred didn’t think anything could make her wedding day worse than the dismal imminence of marrying Bertram Woodbine. Until she looked at her dress.

  Apparently, Mother had commissioned the dressmaker to sew a few last-minute alterations to a ball gown Winnifred hadn’t had the chance to wear this Season. The yards of ivory taffeta with puffed sleeves and tiers of batting-stuffed rouleau at the hem were now enshrouded in an overlay of scratchy silver tulle and applique flowers dotted with pearls.

  “I look like a meringue left in the confectionary shop window too long and covered in cobwebs.”

  “Nonsense,” her mother said, coming up behind her in the oval standing mirror. “You look lovely in it.”

  Winnifred might have gasped if not for the additional whalebone in her corset and stomacher reinforcement. Instead, all she managed was a silent pantomime of openmouthed surprise. It wasn’t like her mother to dole out compliments. Well, not without adding something derogatory.

  “I do, truly?” she asked, her reflection lighting with a hopeful smile.

  “Of course. This gown is so exquisite that it will draw all the attention away from that unruly nest of hair atop your head.”

  Ah, of course. She should have known.

  They’d had a similar near-tender exchange earlier. Before Winnifred was dressed, Mother had come into her bedchamber with a gift—a pair of new silk stockings, embroidered with a row of tiny silver-threaded shells on either side.

  “Your grandmother gave me a pair of stockings like these on my wedding day, as well. She’d spent weeks ensuring that every embellishment was just perfect.”

  “And you stitched these for me?” Winnifred had asked and received a modest smile in response.

  “I suppose it’s my way of being with you as you take your steps into your new life.”

  Touched by the tender gesture, she sniffed. “They’re simply beautiful, Mother.”

  A moment had passed between them, giving Winnifred hope that she was being seen and loved for the person she was.

  But then Mother added, “I’ve always found that vertical stripes offer a comely, narrow appearance.”

  Winnifred had made no comment. She’d simply sunk down onto the tufted bench at the foot of her bed and slipped on her stockings and garter ribbons, choosing to focus on the thought behind the gift. At least Mother had been trying. In her own way.

  Besides, Winnifred had much larger worries on her mind. Even larger than my calves, she thought dryly as she stared at her doomsday dress again.

  In a matter of hours, she would be Mrs. Bertram Woodbine. The wedding breakfast would follow, along with scowls from her new husband. After that, she’d discover what new lodgings her dowry had purchased. And then . . . the wedding night.

  She swallowed down a rise of bile, thinking about being crowded and jostled and breathed upon in Mr. Woodbine’s nuptial carriage.

  “You’re looking rather green, dear,” Mother said absently before her reflection left the looking glass and began to bustle about the room. “Try not to be ill, for it makes your freckles noticeable. As it is, we’ll have to apply lemon juice before we go.”

  A bitter taste lingered on the back of Winnifred’s tongue. “I feel ill because I’m about to marry a man I don’t even like, let alone love. I don’t think lemon juice will alter the fact.”

  “Consider it a blessing in disguise. I’d made the mistake of falling in love with your father”—she expelled a harsh, impatient breath—“and just look how that turned out. We can barely stand to be in the same house together. No, you and Mr. Woodbine are starting off with indifference and that is much more agreeable.”

  “It would be even more agreeable if I didn’t have to marry him at all,” she said bravely into the looking glass, waiting for a response.

  Ever since hearing Jane and Ellie’s plot to help her run away, she hadn’t stopped thinking about it. The certainty that she didn’t want a life with Mr. Woodbine grew larger by every passing second. And now, an urgent need to be heard welled inside her.

  “We are speaking of the rest of my life, after all,” she persisted after a nervous gulp of air. “I don’t want to spend it in misery. Perhaps that sounds dramatic and even maudlin, but it’s true. I am certain that any hope for my own happiness will die a quick death if I stand beside him in the church.”

  Again, silence was her only response. She didn’t even hear her mother’s footsteps.

  Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Apparently, Mother had stepped out and Winnifred had been emptying the contents of her soul to a vacant room.

  Issuing a self-derisive laugh, she began to turn away. “So, I think I’ll simply refuse to marry him. Surely, you and Father don’t care about appearances so much that you’d force me—eeeeee!”

  Mother hadn’t left the room at all. She was standing behind her. Frowning.

  “Have I taught you nothing?” she asked, tapping her foot beneath the hem of an exquisite lavender gown. “Appearances are all we have. Women in society are never happy. When we converse, we keep to trivial topics—where we went on holiday and what new baubles and fabrics we’ve purchased. We brag on the skills of our dressmakers while concealing the fact that we can’t breathe and we’re always hungry and our breasts are sagging. We sip from teacups while monotonously gulping down rumors. Day after day. We complain about the heat, the cold, and our husbands with equal fervor while never revealing our deepest fears. And we do this because we’re all miserable and we need each other.”

  “Mother . . .” Winnifred said, stunned. “I never knew you felt that way.”

  “Then, clearly, I’ve failed.” She threw up her hands, moisture glistening in her eyes. “And to think of all the years I’ve wasted trying to prepare you for the disappointments you’ll face wh
en I’m not around. A mother’s love is never appreciated.”

  Turning away, Mother began to storm out, only to stop abruptly at the sight of Father standing in the doorway.

  The viscountess sniffed and issued a cursory nod. “Julian.”

  “Imogene,” he responded in turn, standing tall and broad-chested in his maroon coat, his russet brows knitted together as his gaze drifted from her to his daughter and back again. “Something amiss?”

  “If I thought it would make a difference, I might bother to tell you.”

  His wife straightened her regal shoulders, then pushed past him, storming off. And he watched her go, his square jaw clenched all the while.

  By way of greeting Winnifred, he said, “The carriage is waiting. And this”—he lifted a brown paper parcel and took three long strides into the chamber—“arrived from Mr. Woodbine a moment ago. Well, don’t just gape at it. Take it.”

  She did, but was more puzzled than ever. “Are you certain it’s from Mr. Woodbine?”

  Her father merely arched a superior brow in response. She’d categorized these subtle forms of expression years ago, deciding that the higher the arch, the more she’d stepped over the line. They went from I’ve sired an idiot—and this was usually accompanied by a roll of the eyes—to how dare you question me, peasant?

  This one was somewhere in the middle. The I know everything arch.

  Tentatively, she took the parcel, wondering what Mr. Woodbine could possibly have sent her. A book itemizing all the foods he forbade her to eat? A wilted corsage? A dead rat?

  Yet, as she pushed aside the paper and carefully opened the lid of the carved wooden casket, her breath caught.

  It wasn’t something terrible after all.

  On a bed of red velvet lay the most beautiful, lustrous pearls she’d ever seen. The perfect ivory spheres formed a necklace, four strands high and held together by a silver clasp. She dared to brush her fingertips over them.