BREATHLESS
Neville smiled as Priscilla came into view. Her blue gown swished silken secrets when she turned and said something too low for him to hear. The light danced on her hair, highlighting each golden strand peeking from beneath the turban made of the same fabric as her gown. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement as she hurried down the stairs to where he stood. When she reached him, he cupped her chin and gazed down into her sapphire eyes. He wanted to sweep her to him and kiss her until she was breathless in his arms. He wanted to lose himself in the sweet fires glowing in her eyes. He wanted her. He gently brushed her lips with the kiss he must content himself with for now.
Three weeks from now, they would be wed. Three weeks to restrain the craving that encompassed him each time he beheld her, that consumed him each time he held her. Three accursed weeks until their wedding! Never, not even when he had been a lad watching the pocket of his prey in order to lift a purse, had such a short time seemed so eternally long.
The Wedding
Caper
Jo Ann Ferguson
For Karen Dennen
who proves big hearts come in small packages.
Chapter One
“Blood,” she whispered. “It is everywhere. Blood and death.”
She lifted an upset chair, but froze when a hand paralyzed with death dropped to the floor with a heavy thump. The man lying on the floor had a red spot in the middle of his chest where a knife with a bone haft had been driven into him. An answering echo came from the doorway she had passed through only moments before.
The sound was not another dead man’s hand, but the unmistakable rhythm of footfalls.
Pausing only long enough to lower the chair silently to the carpet, she ran into the shadows, drawing the draperies about her to conceal the light color of her dress. She peered around the edge of the draperies, which were the same shade as the blood on the floor.
A tall, black-haired man swaggered into the room. His clothes were finely made, and the buttons on his waistcoat glittered in the bright light from beyond the chair. Putting his hands on his hips, he looked down his long nose arrogantly as he scanned the chamber. A slow smile edged his full lips beneath an unfashionably bushy mustache. The chair was not the only piece of furniture that had been turned over, because a small table was on its side, an empty bottle beside it. Once before he had been in this room. He had argued vehemently with the man who lay dead on the floor.
He went over to the dead man and tapped him with his toe. Turning his back on where the woman hid behind the draperies, he strutted around the room. Triumph oozed from every inch of him.
“Where are the others?" demanded the tall man as he turned to speak to someone unseen.
The answer was just a mumble.
The tall man ordered, “Repeat that.”
“They not be ’ere.” A shorter man, his clothes ragged and stained, stepped into the light. He crouched, not looking at the tall man. His pose as much as his clothes revealed he normally would not have been received in the elegant room. He pocketed a small statue, concealing it among his tatters.
“Where are they?” Impatience filled the tall man’s voice.
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” The tall man crossed the room toward where she stood behind the curtains. “You mean you let them slip away? If one of them goes to seek the constable, even /will not be safe.” The tall man laughed malevolently. “You shall not drag me down with you. I will see you dead before I pay for your mistakes.”
The short man chuckled, and a taint of madness knelled in every word as he said, “Don’t worry, m’lord. I will find them ’fore they can sound the alarm.”
“How? You do not know them.”
His smile was heard in his words. ‘That be my concern. I will find them.”
“And then?”
‘Why d’ye ask? Ye know what I will do.” The man’s chortle deepened with sinister anticipation, slicing through the air as brutally as his knife had cut into die dead man. “I will kill them ’fore they can squawk.” He looked past the tall man and called into the darkness on his left, “Was that better, Wiggsley? Surely even you cannot find any fault with this interpretation of the scene.”
Lady Priscilla Flanders smiled as the trio of actors surged toward the front of the stage to listen to comments from the playwright. Sitting in the wings of the small theater for the dress rehearsal of the play debuting tonight was an unexpected pleasure. She was torn between watching the actors and the people scurrying about backstage. One woman was frantically sewing while two men hammered what appeared to be a long bench which they must be readying for an upcoming scene. She had had no idea how much work still needed to be completed when the Prince of Wales Theater opened in less than five hours.
By her feet, her son sat uncommonly still. Isaac must be enthralled by the players and the story unfolding in front of them.
“So how do you think the young miss will escape the villain’s evil schemes?” asked a deep, rich voice from behind her.
She looked over her shoulder and held out her hand to the man walking toward her. “Neville, do you honestly believe I would reveal my ideas to you? Think how you will tease me if I am wrong.”
Sir Neville Hathaway chuckled. She liked his laugh. It was filled with a joie de vivre not even the most dismal situation could dampen. Although the harder years of his life were ingrained into his fiercely sculpted face, his laugh retained a boyish enthusiasm for mischief that often brought her son’s to mind. His hair, falling forward on his brow, was the same shiny black as his boots. He carried his dark coat over one arm, for the theater was unseasonably warm. His white waistcoat, brightened with green vines embroidered along the front, seemed too formal to wear with his buckskin breeches. Such vagaries of fashion did not concern him, she was well aware. It was one of the facets of him that fascinated her. He was now a welcome part of the Polite World, but he still retained a part of the man he had been before he had inherited his dtle.
Kneeling beside her and giving Isaac a wink, he said, “Pris, I had hoped you, as a woman of undeniable courage, had some insight into how the heroine of this play could flee with her life and still unmask the villain to meet his end on the gallows.”
“You might ask the playwright for that answer.”
“He does not know it.” The tall man who had been on stage pushed aside the curtain and stepped over some coiled rope on the floor. He yanked a black wig off his head, tossing it onto a nearby box as he scratched through his fine blond hair. “The fool has changed the ending again. He seems unperturbed that the curtain goes up on this production in less than eight hours. Hathaway, do you think you could talk some sense into him?”
“Me?” Neville came to his feet. “Birdwell, you know I never had any luck in persuading Wiggsley that actors need the final script more than five minutes before the play begins ” Holding out his hand to Priscilla, he brought her to her feet. “This is my fiancee, Lady Priscilla Flanders, and her son Isaac, Lord Emberson.” He smiled at Isaac before saying, “This is, as I am sure you know, Reginald Birdwell, lead actor of the play we shall be attending this evening.”
Mr. Birdwell bowed his head toward her because
Neville still held her hand. He offered his hand to Isaac, who grinned broadly as the actor said, “Good afternoon, my lord.” Being addressed as an adult was a treat for a ten-year-old boy.
Priscilla put her hand on her son’s shoulder. Others were impressed by the tide he had inherited from her father, but she did not want Isaac to believe such fawning was his due. Her father had gained as much respect for his calm thinking and opinions as for his title. She hoped Isaac would come to be viewed the same way.
“Hathaway,” Mr. Bir
dwell said, peeling off the mustache and dropping it atop the wig, “that is nonsense. You were one of the few among us who ever convinced Wiggsley to listen.”
“Listen, yes,” Neville replied. “Heed me, no.”
“But you are a baronet now. Surely he will be more willing to consider your opinions.”
“Wiggsley told me on our last meeting that I was a fool to toss aside a promising career in the theater simply because I was bequeathed a title.” He laughed. ‘Think how scandalized the ton would have been if I had continued playing the rogue and the rake on stage.”
“All those mamas might have breathed a bit more easily to discover your flirting with their young daughters was confined to scenes behind the lights.” Mr. Birdwell’s face turned a brilliant crimson that suggested he had spent too much time in the sun. “My lady, I should not have said such an unthinking thing. Forgive me.”
Priscilla smiled. “You are forgiven, Mr. Birdwell. I know well what Neville’s reputation has been, and I know how much of it is based on fact.” She looked into Neville’s earth-brown eyes and wondered whom else he allowed to see the truth behind the roguish image. The truth was that he was a man she could trust completely, whether with herself or her son or her two daughters. She knew he would offer up his own life to protect her children. He had been in and out of their lives since they were born, and he had proven again and again how he would allow no harm to come to them.
“Priscilla is, as you can see, a most remarkable woman,” Neville said.
She hoped her face was not as scarlet as Mr. Bird- well’s had been moments ago. She was saved from having to reply when a very rotund man burst past the curtain. Only Neville’s tug on her arm pulled her out of the way before the man could run her down.
“Wiggsley, watch where you are going! ” shouted Mr. Birdwell.
The playwright did not slow at the scold, but continued past the seamstress who was cutting a thread. He bumped into her, and her sewing basket fell, scattering threads and pieces of fabric across the dusty floor. A man holding a tray with a single glass jumped out of his way, splashing the boards with drops.
“He appears exasperated beyond expression,” Mr. Birdwell muttered. “I hope he composes himself in time to write an ending to the play.”
The man with the tray edged closer. He wore a work smock over simple breeches and plain shoes, but his pose revealed his awe of the actor. His brown hair drooped into his face as he bobbed his head toward Mr. Birdwell, who was still watching the playwright storm away. The man held the tray out.
“Hathaway,” Mr. Birdwell continued, without acknowledging the man by his elbow, “you have to speak to Wiggsley and persuade him to be sensible. We open in just hours.”
Neville glanced at Priscilla. When she smiled at him to let him know she was unhurt, he said, “I told you, Birdwell. He heeds no one but—”
“His muse. I know. I know. He has said that far too many times, but I believe it is an excuse for not knowing what will take place next in the play.” He did not look at the man motioning with the tray toward him. ‘This is becoming ludicrous, and the Prince of Wales Theater cannot afford another flat move. Such a failure will see the doors closed for good.”
“Sir ...” said the man with the tray, his face long with dismay.
The actor ignored him. “You know how hard we worked to make this theater a success, Hathaway. You know how hard you worked. Now it is a complete muddle.”
“Sir...”
“Won’t you speak with him, Hathaway?”
“Of course he will,” Priscilla said, taking sympathy on the manservant, who was growing more and more distressed. She met Neville’s abrupt frown without expression.
Mr. Birdwell smiled broadly and took the glass from the tray. He grimaced when drops fell onto his right shoe. The manservant hastily wiped off the spots and straightened, his expression now like a puppy which was unsure if it was to be praised or beaten.
‘Thank you, Reeve,” Mr. Birdwell said before tilting back the glass and taking a deep drink. Lowering the glass, he added, “Do bring something for Lady Priscilla and Sir Neville to ease their thirst.”
“That is not necessary,” Priscilla said. “We were about to leave.”
“Leave?” choked the actor. “But, Hathaway, I thought you were going to speak with Wiggsley. I cannot continue with this uncertainty. I am a professional.”
“So is Wiggsley,” Neville replied. “But the last two plays he wrote were outright disasters. Not a single good word was said about them in any corner of London. You are right. The Prince of Wales Theater needs a play that will bring more ticket sales.”
“For that, we must have a story that holds together from beginning to end.”
“From what I have heard,” Neville said, “the ending was not the problem with Wiggsley’s last play. No one stayed long enough to see it.”
Isaac giggled until Priscilla gave him a stern look. She aimed the same expression at Neville, even though she knew it would be futile. When he arched a brow at her and gave an emoted sigh, she had to hide her own smile. She would not have offered for him to speak with the playwright if Neville had not mentioned on the way to the theater that he hoped to have a chance to talk to Mr. Wiggsley.
The actor bowed toward her and strode off as if he still was walking across the boards of the stage with an audience watching him, rapt. His manservant followed behind him, clearly eager to meet his every need.
“Reeve,” she heard the actor say, “do see to the props for the next scene.”
“Mr. Birdwell, that is not my job,” Reeve whined in a tone better suited to someone younger than Isaac.
“Your job is whatever I tell you it is while you are still in my employ. Change the knife in the mannequin on stage. That one was so sticky when I used it, I thought I would not be able to release it.”
“But, Mr. Birdwell—”
“Do as you are told,” the actor said as he opened a door at the back of the cluttered area. Sarcasm chilled his voice as he added, “It is good practice for when you join the Army and head off to glory on the Peninsula. Not that any woman’s head will be turned by such foolish attempts at heroics.”
Reeve’s eyes sparked with fury.
Mr. Birdwell did not seem to notice. “You know where the others are stored. Go and find one.” He slammed the door after him.
Reeve stared at the door for a long minute, then glanced at where Priscilla stood with her son and Neville. Astonishment and vexation combated for prominence on his face. And embarrassment, she guessed, when he whirled and vanished into the shadows, calling for someone to help him get what his employer wanted.
“Hmm...” Neville murmured.
“Hmmm what?” Priscilla asked. She recognized his tone, which suggested his thoughts were taking him in unexpected directions.
“Reeve was not so obsequious when I last saw him. The man has more wit than Birdwell. Groveling is the last thing I would have expected of him. He must have done something horrible if he is trying to atone in such an abject manner.”
“What could be so horrible?”
He raised his dark eyebrows. “Mayhap he mentioned to one of Birdwell’s more ardent admirers that she was not his only ardent admirer.”
Priscilla smiled.
“I trust Mr. Birdwell will forgive him.”
“Eventually.” Neville’s dark eyes twinkled with merriment. “And when such forgiveness is to Birdwell’s best advantage.”
“He will need to hurry if Reeve is joining the Army.”
“So you heard that, too? I thought I might have been mistaken. Reeve must have found a sudden dose of patriotism.”
“Or a sudden determination to win a reluctant woman’s heart.”
He grimaced. “There are easier ways.”
“I agree. Shall we speak with Mr. Wiggsley?”
“I do believe you owe me an apology for arranging for me to participate in that conversation, Pris.”
“And you shall re
ceive one when it is to my best advantage.” She slipped her arm through his. “Shall we look for Mr. Wiggsley?”
A few quick questions sent them on a tour of the area behind the scenery. The seamstress believed he had gone to the dressing area. One of the actors there suggested looking among the props because the playwright often sought inspiration in that storage room. A lad sitting on what appeared to be a tattered elephant said Mr. Wiggsley had been there, but left to go back to the stage.
Stepping over more coiled rope and around what might have been a prop made to look like a Royal Mail coach, Priscilla caught Isaac by the hand. She noticed how he was eyeing a ladder that reached up toward the top of the curtain. When he grumbled something, she knew she had guessed correctly that he had intended to investigate what could be seen from the ladder’s top.
Neville pushed aside the curtain and led the way onto the stage. She stared out into the theater, never having guessed she would see it from this angle. The curved boxes seemed to float in the darkness, and the floor in front of the stage was empty. In a few hours, lamps would send light splashing throughout the theater, and it would be crowded with those eager to see the new play.
A mutter came from just past the edge of the stage. The round shadow must be the playwright. As she stepped closer, she fought not to smile.
Mr. Wiggsley could not hide that he wished he had been born in the time of Shakespeare and Marlowe, when a playwright was revered. He wore commonplace breeches and an unadorned coat, but over them he had donned a short cape. It was appropriate for a courtier in Queen Elizabeth’s court, not for a theater during the Prince of Wales’s Regency. She wondered if he had had it specially made or if it were truly the child’s cloak it resembled.
He turned at the sound of their footsteps. His almost colorless eyes beneath his brown hair widened, then squinted as if he were trying to discern who stood on the stage. “Hathaway . . .” He frowned. “I probably should call you something else now, shouldn’t I?”
The Wedding Caper Page 1
