A Wedding by Dawn

by Alison Delaine

  “Lord Cantwell. But—” She looked back and forth between them. “Well, of course, you wouldn’t have heard. He sailed for the colonies a fortnight ago.”

  “The colonies,” Nicholas said sharply.

  “I understand he’s been sent as an ambassador or some such—political unrest or something of that nature. I can scarcely follow all the twists and turns of it. But the fact remains, Lord Cantwell is not in London.”

  Not in London.

  But...Father wouldn’t have left without making arrangements, would he? Already India could see that was exactly what Nicholas was thinking.

  “I must speak with his man of business at once. Excuse me.”

  He strode out the door, leaving India standing there with Lady Ramsey, who stared after him for a moment, then turned her stunning green eyes on India.

  “I’d hoped we might have a moment to speak privately,” she said.

  And now India realized that she herself was the hostess—no matter that it was Lady Ramsey’s brother’s house—so she led the way into the nearest sitting room and called for tea.

  “Please, Lady Ramsey,” she said, “do sit.”

  “Thank you. And I shall come straight to the point,” Lady Ramsey said, seating herself on a nearby chair. “Lady Croston is a dear friend, and I am outraged on her behalf that you and your friend stole her ship. But more than that, my brothers mean the world to me, and Nicholas is especially dear to my heart. I begged him to reject your father’s proposal, but Nicholas is nothing if not strong willed, and he refused to listen. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve happiness. It’s what I want for him more than anything in the world.”

  What about my happiness? India wanted to ask. But it was too late for that now, and nobody cared about her happiness, anyway. “I’m sure Nicholas will be happy the moment he receives what my father has promised him,” she said.

  “La, that dreadful agreement! Our father would turn in his grave to know what Nicholas has resorted to—and through no fault of his own.”

  “Except for his debt,” India couldn’t help reminding her, even as she thought how Nicholas’s father was not in any grave, but was in Paris probably reciting a mass.

  “Is dear Nicholas to blame for tempests? Pirates? My brother’s debt is the result of a string of unfortunate circumstances and nothing more. Nobody expects every single investment—every last one—to fail. Diversification is supposed to mitigate the risk.” Lady Ramsey accepted a cup of tea and sipped. “But it didn’t, and now Nicholas has been up to any number of things to try to right himself, such as this silly new investment consortium—mills or some such.”

  “Nicholas doesn’t think it’s silly,” India objected, thinking of all the hours he’d spent studying those plans during their journey.

  Lady Ramsey cocked her head and looked at India. “No, I suppose he doesn’t.”

  “Nicholas is very hardworking.”

  “Too hardworking. Both my brother James and I think so. There’s no reason for it, all this scrapping about.”

  “Perhaps he enjoys it.”

  There was a soft noise from the doorway, and India saw Lady Ramsey’s attention shift curiously past her. India turned.

  Emilie!

  Quickly she set down her cup and saucer. “A moment, please,” she said, and hurried to the door.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” she asked Emilie in a hushed tone, bending down and touching her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  Emilie nodded, casting a worried glance into the salon. “I should not have left my room. I only wondered where you had gone.”

  “Shh. It’s all right. Only return upstairs, and I’ll be there shortly, and I shall teach you a new game to play. All right?”

  Emilie nodded, her eyes full of fear and guilt even now.

  India reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Bien. Va-t’en.” Emilie hurried toward the stairs, lifting her skirts to practically run up them, and India turned back to the salon and Nicholas’s other half sister, who sipped her tea and regarded her curiously.

  “Who on earth was that?” Lady Ramsey asked.

  What would Nicholas want her to say? She knew very well what he would not want her to say. She smoothed her skirts and returned to her seat, trying to act as if it hadn’t been Nicholas’s sister who had just run up the stairs to hide.

  “A young girl Miss Germain and I took aboard the ship,” she explained, reaching for her tea. “An orphan.” She made herself smile at Lady Ramsey. “I told Nicholas I would raise hell if he did not agree to give Emilie a home.”

  “La, Lady India—it is my very great fear you will raise hell regardless.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Cantwell’s man of business stared at Nick blank-eyed from behind a pair of spectacles and a desk that looked as if it had sustained an assault by the entire French army.

  “I have a contract with Lord Cantwell for payment of fifty thousand pounds,” Nick told him.

  Ludlow dipped his pen and added words to a half-finished letter. “He said nothing to me about it before he left.”

  “All of bloody England knows about this contract.”

  “What I mean is that he left no specific instructions about satisfying the contract should it be fulfilled.” He dipped his pen once more. “I had the distinct impression that he did not believe it would be.”

  “But it has been,” Nick said flatly.

  Scribble, scratch, scribble. “Fifty thousand is a very large sum for me to be making decisions about without his lordship’s express direction.” Dip, dip, scribble.

  A pit opened up in Nick’s gut. This could not be happening.

  Nick planted his hands on the mess of documents littering the desk and leaned close. “I have the contract right here. Surely you do not imagine Cantwell intended for you to leave his business obligations unfulfilled.”

  Scribble, scribble, scratch.

  Plunk.

  The man jammed the pen into its stand and leaned back in his chair. “How well do you suppose that contract would stand up in a court of law, Lord Taggart?”

  It wouldn’t. There had never been any question about that—it was just an agreement between himself and Cantwell. Which meant if Ludlow refused to honor it, Nick couldn’t even petition a court to demand performance.

  “Forgive me,” Nick said now—quietly, feeling bile rise, “but it sounds as if you are questioning my arrangements with your employer. As that cannot possibly be the case, I must insist that you draft the bank note immediately.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “It isn’t your place to interfere.”

  “On the contrary, Lord Cantwell relies on me to manage his affairs. This one, I daresay, has been badly mismanaged. You have my deepest apologies.” Oh, yes. Ludlow looked nothing if not apologetic. “I’m afraid you’ll simply have to wait until he returns and discuss it with him then.” Dip, dip, scribble.

  By the time Cantwell returned from the colonies, it would be too late. Every method Nick could think of that might change Ludlow’s mind would also ensure that Nick would end up in gaol.

  Nick stalked to the door, feeling as if he were suffocating. “You’ll regret this decision. And when Lord Cantwell returns, you will likely find yourself without employment.”

  “I doubt that very much, Your Lordship,” he heard Ludlow say as Nick slammed the door.

  Out on the street, the full meaning of it sank in like the steady rain soaking his greatcoat. There would be no money from Cantwell. He shouted directions to the driver and raced to see Holliswell, but met only false sympathy and a smug smile on Holliswell’s fat lips. There would be no more extensions, no more so-called favors.

  And now, Nick’s only hope of having anything at all was to find a buyer for Taggart quickly—in a fortnight or less. He could sell the place, pay Holliswell and at least have a little left over. Otherwise, Holliswell would simply take Taggart as payment.

  N
ow, either way, he would lose his only legitimate home.

  Either way, he would be a man who could lay claim to nothing—not even his own name.

  And either way, he would still have Emilie to think of—and India.

  Good God. India.

  The carriage rolled through the streets toward James’s house, and Nick rubbed his hands over his face. Bloody hell. He’d married India thinking at least she would be mistress of Taggart. But being Lady Taggart would mean nothing now, and instead she would be mistress of...what?

  He did not even know that much.

  But one thing was sure: whatever situation he found would be painfully modest. At least anything he gave Emilie would be more than she’d ever had before. But to see India as Lady Taggart, up to her elbows in wash water...that was a shame he couldn’t bear.

  But there was a solution. He looked out the window, thinking of it. Hating it. But India had never wanted this marriage, anyway. Had been crushed by it—hadn’t he seen enough evidence of that since they’d left Paris? The fight had left her, and he hadn’t realized how much he would miss it until it was gone.

  And it hurt like the devil to do what needed to be done—more than he would have expected it to—but it was the only way.

  * * *

  AFTER LADY RAMSEY left, India found Emilie and taught her to play pick-up-sticks. And then she ordered a fresh pot of tea, and they sat against the pillows on the bed and drank, and India told Emilie that ladies of leisure mostly talked of gowns and fashion. And even though India had not thought much about either for years, she made a game out of playacting dramatic statements in nasal French like I daresay I shan’t live unless I find a bolt of lace in the exact shade of peacock-green and That horrid brown silk won’t do—it simply won’t do!

  And they giggled and laughed, and India imagined that this might be what it was like to have a sister. She got the idea to begin teaching Emilie some words of English, so she started with the things around them: teacup, saucer, coverlet, pillow, shoes.

  India looked at her feet next to Emilie’s, two pairs of toes pointing in the air, and felt less alone than she had in a very long time.

  The slam of a carriage door drifted up from the street, and moments later came the faint sounds of someone being admitted below.

  “Mon frère,” Emilie said hopefully. “Il est revenu.”

  “Yes—I believe so.” It sounded as if Nicholas had indeed returned, and India wondered with what news. Had he secured the money? And if he hadn’t...

  A wild imagining planted itself in her mind: that there would be no money. That he would finally see how wrong he’d been. That the money was not the important thing, and he’d already received the real object of value—her—and that their marriage meant nobody could take that from him. I have nothing to offer you but myself, he might tell her. And perhaps he wouldn’t care about shame anymore—only about her, and Emilie, and the three of them would live together somewhere cozy and happy and safe.

  Moments later, the butler appeared in the open doorway. “Your ladyship is needed in the library,” he said.

  She left Emilie with the reassurance of a quick return, and went downstairs to find Nicholas sitting on the corner of the desk with his hands clasped lightly between his legs, staring at the carpet.

  He looked up at her through hollow eyes. “Your father’s man of business refuses to honor the agreement in your father’s absence,” he told her. “I’ve spoken with Holliswell—he’s not willing to wait, even for correspondence from your father. My only option is to sell Taggart immediately if I can. Otherwise...”

  Otherwise Mr. Holliswell would take ownership of Taggart.

  No money. It was a fact—there would truly be no money. Her heart raced, and all the things she’d thought of mere minutes ago took wing on fresh hope.

  Just then, the butler appeared again. “Bishop Wentworth, Your Lordship.”

  A distinguished man of the church entered the room.

  “I appreciate your coming on such short notice,” Nicholas said to him. “This is Lady India...” He made the introductions.

  “I read your note explaining the situation and that you wish to proceed with an annulment,” the bishop said.

  “An annulment,” India echoed. Nicholas wanted to annul the marriage? There was an initial moment of shock, and then...

  “If ever a marriage deserved to be treated as null and void, it is ours,” Nicholas told the bishop. “The agreement I made with her father—of which I’m sure you are aware—had no legal footing. Lady India has voiced her objections clearly and consistently.”

  And now—now—he was prepared to honor those objections? She stared at him, hearing the words while pain began to pool inside her, filling her, rising mercilessly as he continued to speak.

  “The marriage ceremony itself was of questionable validity,” Nicholas went on, “ashamed as it makes me to say it—”

  Ashamed? Now he was ashamed?

  “—and of course, the marriage remains unconsummated.”

  Unconsummated!

  She couldn’t stand it a moment longer. “What the devil are you about?” The words ripped out of her. It hurt—oh, God, it hurt—and she should be relieved—she should be rejoicing—but an awful outrage gripped her instead. “It wasn’t enough to force me into marriage? Now you think to cast me aside?”

  Nicholas looked at her sharply. The bishop’s brows dived.

  “I concede to your well-reasoned arguments that I had no business attempting to marry you in the first place, and that the marriage we have now is a sham,” he said.

  Of course. Of course he did. There was no money now—no reason to keep her. He didn’t want her anymore. Not without the money.

  “Now that you won’t be receiving your reward from my father, the marriage is a sham. You were perfectly happy to pretend this marriage was legitimate when it served your purposes, but now that it does not—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “—you’ll do what? Send me into the street with my trunk and a pat on the head? After everything you’ve done?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake—”

  “After I gave you my virtue?”

  “Lord Taggart,” the bishop interrupted, frowning, “with all due respect, this is not what I expected to hear.”

  “I’m sure Lady India is only having a momentary lapse of reason,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth. “We have discussed the possibility of a separation endlessly.”

  “I am not a jacket, to be worn when it pleases you and then tossed aside when you decide it no longer suits.”

  “I was under the impression that my jacket wished to be liberated to choose its own wearer,” he ground out.

  The bishop cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Lord Taggart, I’m afraid this...ah...fashion dispute is hardly a proper situation for annulment. I’m needed back at the church, so may I suggest, if the jacket fits—” he looked at India “—wear it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “WHAT IN GOD’S name did you think you were doing?” Nicholas demanded irately the moment the bishop was gone.

  “I might ask the same,” India shot back, somehow able to speak past the terrible ache in her chest. “You will certainly never get your money from my father if this marriage is annulled.”

  “You do realize,” he said darkly, “that we will never put this marriage asunder now.”

  Yes. That was precisely what she realized. “If that is what it takes to prevent you from using me at your convenience and then tossing me aside without a penny, then that is the price I shall pay.”

  “Without a penny? Are you saying you objected because you thought you would receive no money?”

  That wasn’t it at all, but it was better than letting him know the truth and risk exposing feelings she didn’t fully understand. Let him believe it was money she wanted—for once, let him believe he was not enough.

  She nodded.

  He stared at her. �
��You can’t be serious.”

  “Believe it.”

  “I would have given you something if you had but asked!”

  “When would I have asked? In the mere two hours you’ve spent busily arranging the annulment of the marriage that a week ago you wanted so desperately that you enlisted your friends to trick me? With this marriage set aside, you would not feel beholden to offer me anything at all for the trouble you’ve caused me.”

  But she didn’t want him beholden. Ninny that she was, she wanted him to have taken her virtue because he wanted her for his own. To have married her because he wanted her for his wife.

  The shame that had attacked her in Paris squeezed her now. She still wanted him, even though he did not want her.

  “I can hardly feel beholden now, can I?” he said angrily. “You had your chance for freedom, and now you have chained us both for life.”

  “How fascinating that you now abhor the very plan you conceived,” she told him. She thought of Emilie waiting upstairs, trusting them both, fearful for her own future. “I only hope you don’t plan to cast Emilie aside, too, if she fails to live up to your expectations.”

  Nicholas stalked to the desk and opened a lockbox. He reached for a pen, and after a few angry scratches he thrust a paper in her direction. “Five hundred pounds. You may pack your things and return to your aunt in Paris.”

  India stared at the note in her hands. Five hundred— “You cannot afford this.”

  “What I cannot afford, Lady India, is you.”

  His words dug into her heart like cruel fingers. “You will have to do much better than this to be rid of me,” she made herself scoff. Only a few weeks ago she would have taken this money and fled gleefully back to the Mediterranean. Now all she could think of was what it meant that he was willing to pay such a huge sum to be rid of her, and that he would have nothing left for Emilie if she took it. She tossed the bank draft onto the desk. “You stole my living out from under me when you took me from Malta—”

  “A living you yourself had stolen!”

  “—and we shan’t be even until you provide me a living to replace it.”