The Wedding Caper

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  He brushed her cheek with a kiss that was appropriate for standing in the open square. “I thought they would allow us the excuse to give Daphne and her admirer a chance for some conversation that would be overheard only by a footman.” He gestured toward the phaeton. “Stuttman has driven the phaeton for me before.”

  ‘That is a good idea.”

  “Especially because it will allow us some time for private conversation, too.” He took her hand and bent over it. Tipping her hand palm up, he pressed his Ups to it. The heat from his mouth surged through her thin leather gloves.

  “You are aiming to ruin my reputation,” she whispered.

  “Then I shall have to do the honorable thing and marry you, Pris.” A slow smile spread from his lips to his eyes to light them with the expression that seemed to soften her bones into a sweet, perfumed pool.

  Daphne rushed up to them, twirling about so Neville could admire her ivory gown with the matching parasol. She twittered like a songbird, rejoicing in the return of the sun after several rainy days. Giggling over some jest Neville must have made, Daphne let him hand her into the phaeton.

  Priscilla watched as her daughter kissed Neville on the cheek. Two years ago when Lazarus died, she could not have guessed either she or her children would be so happy again. Neville had brought joy back into their lives. Since then, it had been threatened time and again by their disbelief that friendship could evolve into love. Finally owning the truth to themselves and each other when they could no longer deny it, they reveled in what they had found.

  Juster stepped forward. “May I help you, my lady?”

  Startled out of her contemplation, Priscilla nodded. “Thank you, Juster.” She let the footman assist her into the saddle on the gray horse.

  ‘Too slow, I see,” Neville said, coming back to stand beside the horse.

  “My lord?” asked the footman, puzzled.

  “Not you.” He clapped Juster on the shoulder. “I speak rather of my being too slow helping Miss Flanders so that I did not return in time to throw Lady Priscilla into the saddle.”

  “I am—”

  Neville laughed. “Do not apologize, Juster. I suspect I shall have a time or two to help Lady Priscilla before she is too old to ride.” He swung up onto the bay. “What do you say, Priscilla?”

  “I say you should recall that you are older than I.”

  “Ouch!” He put his hand over his chest. That one pierced me right to where I am young at heart.”

  Priscilla rolled her eyes before guiding her horse to match the pace of the carriage slowly driving toward Tottenham Court Road. By the time she reached the corner of the square, Neville had caught up with them.

  As they rode toward Oxford Street and Hyde Park, she forced her dreary spirits aside. It was a lovely day, and she wanted to enjoy the chance to be out of the house and away from the wedding arrangements, which had taken on a frantic pace now that the final reading of the banns and the ceremony were only days away.

  The busy streets gave way to the serenity of the Park. The open expanse leading down to the Serpentine was filled with people enjoying the day. A few had placed blankets on the grass and were enjoying an alfresco meal, but most were wandering about and talking with friends.

  Priscilla made an effort to keep a smile on her face as she greeted people she knew. More than once, she considered asking Neville to slow the pace, but refrained. Her low mood seemed to wash up over her again and again like the tiny waves slapping the shores of the Serpentine when a boat was pushed out onto the water.

  When the carriage abruptly turned to the left and the trees along Park Lane, she heard Neville laugh.

  “What is funny?” she asked, urging her horse to keep up with the phaeton.

  “Your daughter needs to learn to hide her thoughts.” He pointed ahead of them to where a man was standing in the shade beside his horse. “Otherwise, she is going to ride Witherspoon down.”

  The man stepped out into the sunshine, and Priscilla saw Neville was correct. The marquess was dressed, as always, in prime twig, with his navy blue coat open to reveal his waistcoat and with black breeches tucked into well-polished boots. Beneath a tall hat, his face was brighter than the reflection of the sun off his gold buttons as he watched the carriage approach.

  “I would suggest the same lessons for Witherspoon,” Neville said dryly. “I think Daphne’s calf-love is reciprocated.”

  “Don’t let her hear you describe it that way,” she murmured as they drew even with where the carriage had stopped and Lord Witherspoon had come to stand on the side where Daphne sat.

  “Good afternoon, Witherspoon,” Neville called.

  The young marquess tore his gaze from Daphne. “Good afternoon, Hathaway.” He tipped his hat toward Priscilla. “And to you, my lady. I am pleased you decided to ride today. Ah, Sitwell.”

  Priscilla smiled as another horse stopped on the far side of the carriage not far from the marquess. The red-haired man, swinging down off his mount, was introduced to her as Lord Sitwell, the younger son of a duke. He had many freckles scattered across his long nose, which seemed to be trying to reach his chin.

  When Neville drew in a sharp breath, she turned to him and asked, “What is it?”

  “Sitwell,” he murmured. “He matches the description Birdwell gave me of Ella Ayers’s lover.”

  “His red hair could have been what caught my eye.”

  He nodded. ‘That is not a subject we can discuss now.”

  She looked at her daughter. Neville was right, for she could not speak of Lord Sitwell’s paramour in her daughter’s hearing. “I trust you will call on him later.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “You are a dashed fool,” Lord Witherspoon said when Priscilla turned her attention back to the conversation by the carriage.

  “Me?” asked the redhead.

  “Look at you. All that glitter is dangerous now.”

  Lord Sitwell held up his hand where two rings, one topped with a red stone, shone. “I will not be frightened by some coward into putting aside my finery. I have been wearing these rings since I left school, and I do not intend to hide them away in some musty box.”

  “Then you are a fool.” The marquess looked back at Daphne. “I am pleased to see you are much wiser, Miss Flanders. Anyone wearing jewelry now marks themselves as a possible victim for that murdering thief.”

  Neville leaned forward. “Isn’t that a bit of an overreaction?”

  “Ride around the Park,” Lord Witherspoon said, “and you will see I am not the only one who shares that concern. Even the matrons who usually bedeck themselves in their family’s heirloom jewelry are as plain as monks. Nobody wishes to be a target.”

  ‘The two women were killed at the theater, not on an outing.”

  “No one wishes to take chances, save for Sitwell.” Priscilla listened as the two young men argued, then moved her horse a few steps away. She could chaperon her daughter from this distance, although she suspected Neville’s orders to his footman about acting as a watch-dog had been very precise.

  As soon as Neville moved his horse closer, she said, “A quick ride about the Park should tell us if Lord Witherspoon is correct or panicking.”

  “He does not have a reputation for panic, Pris.” His face was shuttered again, and she knew he was trying to make these comments fit in with what else they knew about the murders.

  “Will you ride about and confirm his opinion?”

  He nodded. “I shall be back quickly. Stay close to the carriage.”

  “You sound as if you expect the murderer to jump out from behind a tree and stab me.”

  “I will not make any assumptions at this point, Pris.” Priscilla turned her horse toward the carriage and was glad to discover Lord Witherspoon and his friend had changed the subject. They both were focused on Daphne, which her daughter was clearly relishing. Her smile seemed almost as broad as the Serpentine. Even when Priscilla was welcomed into the conversation, Daphne continued t
o glow with excitement. Neither man acted as if they had noticed Neville’s departure. Even if they had, such comings and goings were commonplace in the Park, where conversations shifted as people met up with other friends.

  Again, as when she had been hosting Lord Witherspoon in her front parlor, Priscilla’s attention drifted. She could not keep from wondering what Neville might discover and was eager for him to return and share that information with her. Mayhap the very clue they needed was here in the Park.

  “Ride a bit longer with me, Pris,” Neville said when they paused in front of her house on Bedford Square.

  “Aunt Cordelia expects me to call on her to go over a few final details for the wedding breakfast.” She smiled as her daughter waved before going into the house.

  “I would rather speak of what I have seen without other ears overhearing.”

  “All right.” She set her horse to a walk to match his horse’s pace. “Is Lord Witherspoon right? Are people eschewing their jewelry because they are afraid they will be the next victim?”

  Neville nodded, even as he scanned the closest houses. He lowered his voice. “Pris, people are terrified. They had persuaded themselves that Harmony Lummis’s death was the result of a lover’s quarrel or a jealous husband. That theory was credible when Lummis left town and did not return.”

  “He went to bury his wife.”

  “I know that, and so do you.” He sighed. “So does the ton, but they overlooked the facts in exchange for resuming their festivities. That fiddling while Rome burned came to an abrupt end with Lady Dentford’s murder. Now they are scared.”

  “Panicked?”

  “Close.” He raised his voice slightly as two carriages came into the square from opposite directions. “If the murderer is not halted and hanged soon, I suspect some of the ton will make good their threats to leave

  London now. Once a few leave, the migration back to daisyville will become a race to escape the killer. Some have already given him mythical abilities to sneak in and out of the theater unseen. I need to speak with Sitwell and find out if he saw anything at the theater during his trysts with Ella Ayers.”

  “Do you think he will own to anything?”

  “Most men are not reluctant to share information about time spent with their convenients.”

  She did not have a chance to reply. An explosion resonated through the square. Something whizzed past her ear like a swarm of maddened bees. Stone flew as the house in front of her was struck.

  Neville jumped from his horse and grabbed her by the waist. They tumbled to the walkway. He pulled her into the garden in the center of the square and behind a bush. He pressed her to the ground as another ball was fired at them. She heard someone shriek. Was it her? And the rattle of a carriage being driven away at a high speed. Another scream. Savage curses.

  The last came from just above her. She tried to get up, then winced as her elbow ached. Tears sprang into her eyes as she whispered, “Neville, let me up.” He mumbled something, then moved so she could sit. She heard someone calling for the watch. Doors slammed all around the square. When he tipped her face toward him, she wondered if her face was as colorless as his.

  He ran his hands along her as he asked, “Are you all right, Pris?”

  “For someone who has just been shot at, yes.” She looked in the direction the carriage had vanished. “Did you see who shot at us?”

  “A blond man.”

  “Birdwell?” she choked.

  “He is not the only light-haired man in London. Did you see anything to identify him further?”

  Even if she had noticed anything about the carriage and the man driving it, Priscilla had no chance to tell Neville anything. They were smothered by a frightened crowd pressing closer to discover if they were still alive. All the people were discussing the shooting, although she wondered, hearing their comments, if any of them had seen the same thing.

  Daphne rushed up to them with Gilbert and Mrs. Moore on her heels. “Mama!” she cried. “Mama! Uncle Neville! Are you hurt?”

  Neville came to his feet and held out his hand to Priscilla. She reached for it, then saw her right glove was torn and her palm scraped. She took his hand with her left and came slowly to her feet.

  Blood was running down his face. She pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to him. Nodding his thanks, he pressed the linen to his raw cheek. He must have scraped it on the walkway. It could have been much worse. When he put his arm around her shoulders, she rested her head on him, glad for his strength.

  “We are fine,” Neville assured Daphne and everyone else. “Has someone sent for the authorities?”

  A dozen answers came back.

  Neville said beneath the cacophony, “Gilbert, if someone has not alerted Bow Street, send word to Thurmond right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” The butler remained as calm as always, although the tic by his right eye was twitching faster than she had ever seen.

  Mrs. Moore cleared a path through the crowd. She sent some boys to bring the horses to the stables in the mews behind the house. Leading Priscilla, Neville, and Daphne into the house, she offered to bring something strong upstairs to the back parlor.

  ‘Just tea for me,” Priscilla murmured.

  “Just tea,” Neville seconded before adding, “and brandy.”

  The housekeeper smiled, then hurried toward the stairs to the kitchen.

  “Mama, if you want to leave London, I will understand. You do not need to stay in Town because of me.” Daphne blinked back tears. “As much as I have waited for the opportunity to be part of the Polite World, I would trade every minute of it to make sure you are safe.”

  “Lord Witherspoon wants you to leave London, doesn’t he?” Priscilla asked with a smile.

  “Yes, but, Mama, it is more than that. I could not bear to think I put you in danger because I wished to spend time with Burke.”

  Priscilla arched an eyebrow at her daughter’s easy use of the marquess’s name. Either Daphne did not notice, or she was so immersed in despondency that she could not muster a reaction.

  “I am in no more danger than anyone else in the ton,” she said.

  “But the murderer clearly knows you and Uncle Neville are asking questions.”

  “Yes.” She reached for the banister, wishing her head did not ache so much.

  “Do you need help getting upstairs, Mama?” Daphne asked, flitting about nervously.

  “I should be fine—” She yelped as Neville put his arm under her knees and lifted her up against his chest. “Neville, don’t be silly. You are bumped up as much as I am.”

  “Pris, for once do not argue when I am doing something for your own good.”

  “For once.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes while he carried her up the stairs.

  The all-too-brief respite came to a halt when they reached the top. Leah and Isaac were waiting. They began asking questions, each louder than the previous one.

  “Daphne, explain to your brother and sister,” Neville said.

  “But I don’t know what happened,” she replied, her eyes wide.

  “Neither do we.” He carried Priscilla into the back parlor and closed the door.

  As he placed her on the settee, she said, “Neville, the children are frightened on our behalf. You cannot close them out.”

  ‘You need to rest.”

  “I shall not be allowed to rest while they talk right outside the door.”

  Neville did not want to agree, but he knew Priscilla was right. Going to the door, he opened it and went out. He closed it behind him as he gave each child an intense look. Both Isaac and Leah grew silent while Daphne sighed with relief.

  “Your mother is fine, save for a few bruises and scratches,” he said. “Those, I regret to say, were most likely caused by my haste to get her to safety. What she needs now is quiet. However, she wants to see you and soothe your fears herself. If you promise to be quiet and gentle, you may go in.”

  “I will be quie
t! ” shouted Isaac, waving his hand. He deflated when Neville gave him another stern glance. In a whisper, he repeated, “I will be quiet.”

  “I will, too.” Leah grasped Neville’s hand.

  He winced and realized he must have scraped it, too, but he did not release her fingers. Opening the door, he ushered the children in. Isaac and Leah ran to their mother.

  Daphne looked at him. “Uncle Neville, how are you?”

  “Playing your mother’s knight in shining armor can be hazardous at times.” He patted her cheek. “Go to your mother. She wants to see you, too.”

  Neville watched as Priscilla allayed her children’s qualms about her safety. She spoke quietly, and after several minutes had passed, their voices grew calm. ’When Leah placed her head on her mother’s lap, he recalled how cozy a perch that had been for his own. He would have liked to usurp Leah’s place, but that would have to wait.

  Slipping out of the room, he closed the door quietly behind him. He smiled at one of the maids who was coming up the stairs with a tea tray. He took the bottle of brandy and motioned for her to go into the back parlor.

  He did not follow. Before he faced Priscilla again, he had to get his emotions under control. She was far more serene—or appeared more serene—than he. Now that she had calmed the children, he could not allow his fury at whoever fired the gun to upset them again.

  Opening the bottle of brandy, he tipped it back. The maid coming out of the back parlor stared at him in astonishment, but rushed away when he scowled at her.

  He walked to the front of the house where he could see the garden in the square’s heart. His phaeton remained in front of the house, but someone had taken the horses away from the crowd that was only now dispersing.

  So many people. Yet, not a one seemed sure of what he or she had seen and heard.

  He swore under his breath, then a bit louder. Priscilla could have been killed because he had let his pride blind him. He had been so assured that he could keep her and her family safe from this murderer.