The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  The Wedding Chase is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1998 by Becky Kjelstrom

  Excerpt from Midnight Hour by Debra Dixon © 1994 by Debra Dixon.

  Excerpt from Morgan’s Woman by Judith E. French copyright © 1999 by Judith E. French.

  Excerpt from A Case for Romance by Katie Rose copyright © 1999 by Katie Rose.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  The Wedding Chase was originally published in paperback by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1998.

  Cover design: Derek Walls

  Cover Illustration: Aleta Rafton

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79878-7

  www.ReadLoveSwept.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prelude

  Chapter 1 - Pizzicato

  Chapter 2 - Canzonet

  Chapter 3 - Capriccio

  Chapter 4 - Sotto Voce

  Chapter 5 - Coloratura

  Chapter 6 - Duet

  Chapter 7 - Polyphony

  Chapter 8 - Rhapsody

  Chapter 9 - Melody

  Chapter 10 - Vivace

  Chapter 11 - Scherzo

  Chapter 12 - Dithyramb

  Chapter 13 - Toccata

  Chapter 14 - Bravura

  Chapter 15 - Counterpoint

  Chapter 16 - Staccato

  Chapter 17 - Fugue

  Chapter 18 - Cadenza

  Chapter 19 - Crescendo

  Postlude

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Debra Dixon’s Midnight Hour

  Excerpt from Judith E. French’s Morgan’s Woman

  Excerpt from Katie Rose’s A Case for Romance

  PRELUDE

  A performance introducing the principal theme

  “By Satan’s pointed tail, what’s all the ruckus?” Wolfgang Hardwicke, earl of Northcliffe, slammed a fistful of cards on the table. “Can’t even concentrate on my game. ’Cuse me, gents. I’ll only be out a hand or two.” Standing suddenly, he upset the rickety chair and strode from the dimly lit main salon toward the offending noise. He threw open the door of the private gaming room, almost knocking the flimsy thing off its hinges.

  Inside, he noted a tall, disheveled young man swaying near a scowling, well-muscled giant. Two tough-looking men hovered near a table across the dingy room, one small and wiry, the other short and squat. Instinctively, Wolfgang felt for the dagger tucked in his waistcoat pocket.

  “Bloody cheat!” The young man slurred, his balance off kilter as he lunged for the much larger man.

  Wolfgang intercepted the young man neatly, swinging him into the nearest empty chair—which promptly crumbled, tumbling both of them to the floor.

  “Lemme at him.” The young man, at least ten years shy of Wolfgang’s thirty-two years, struggled to rise, impeded by Wolfgang’s heavier form firmly ensconced on his chest.

  “You’re foxed.” Wolfgang stood, pushing long black hair, freed of its usual queue, from his eyes. Turning from the young man, he glanced around at the coarse men lining the dirty, smoke-filled room. “What happened here?”

  “Fleeced me.” The young man still tried unsuccessfully to stand. Wolfgang extended a hand, yanking him to his feet.

  “Won fair ’n’ square, guv.” The giant, big enough to tower over Wolfgang’s own considerable height, folded his beefy arms defiantly over his chest. “Fleetwood ’ere is so drunk ’e wouldn’t know ’is own pa, let alone an ace from a king.”

  “And cheating?” Wolfgang’s blandly spoken inquiry met stares from three sets of sullen eyes.

  “A gent don’t accuse a gent of cheatin’.” But the fellow with the beefy arms was obviously no gentleman, and the odds being what they were, Wolfgang felt it unwise to question his claim.

  Young Fleetwood was not so wise. “You’re no gennleman, you’re a cheat.”

  The big man took a step forward, clenching hamlike fists at his sides. Wolfgang took a diplomatic step backward. Fleetwood, however, straightened his tall, slender form, and took a wobbly step forward. Wolfgang felt the tension in the squalid room swell, tightening around him like the skin around a sprained ankle. If he had any sense, he’d turn and walk away, leaving the youthful fool to deal with his own stupidity. But he paused too long, and the time for sensible inaction passed. Fleetwood somehow connected his fist to the fleshy cheek of the huge brute with a sickening thud, and the fight was on.

  One of the smaller ruffians, wiry and surprisingly strong, launched himself at Wolfgang, who took one punch to the stomach before collecting himself and landing bone-crunching hits to his assailant’s face and neck. When the third man, the squat one, circled around him, Wolfgang knew this was not the right moment for a fair fight. He disposed of the wiry man before him with a hard, sure kick to that most sensitive spot between the legs.

  Reaching under his jacket, Wolfgang withdrew his dagger. A swift twist of his torso and a snaking of his wrist, and the squat man stumbled back, howling and clutching an open gash on his cheek. Lunging forward, growling low in his throat, Wolfgang sent the man careening into the hallway.

  One down. One out.

  Wiping sweat from his forehead, Wolfgang spun back to the one-sided battle being waged on the other side of the shabby gaming room. The beefy man gripped Fleetwood by the throat. Still wielding the dagger, Wolfgang sliced through shirt and skin. With a savage shout the giant loosed Fleetwood and turned on Wolfgang. Wolfgang slashed at the broad chest, leaving behind more torn clothing streaked bright red. The giant lurched back, raising both hands. Wolfgang grabbed Fleetwood’s arm and edged toward the door.

  Fleetwood stumbled, striking a glancing blow to Wolfgang’s shoulder. “You’ll not cheat me and walk away.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Wolfgang gripped him tighter. The young fool didn’t know a friend from an enemy.

  The beefy man, heedless of his wounds, came toward them again. Wolfgang released Fleetwood’s arm. Switching his dagger rapidly to his left hand, he met Fleetwood’s jaw firmly with his right, then caught the now limp form under the arms.

  “Sorry. You’ll thank me later.” Wolfgang dragged Fleetwood swiftly into the hallway. “Don’t try to follow,” he barked, kicking the shaky door shut behind them.

  “Maven! Where is that demon from hell?” He yanked Fleetwood down the narrow hall into a small, sparse office and dropped him into a chair, shouting to a skinny youth peering through the doorway. “Get Maven now!”

  The grubby boy dashed off in search of the gaming hell proprietor. Maven, tall and hawkish, appeared in moments, looking down his nose at the unconscious Fleetwood. “Young fellow’s cut from the same cloth as his father. He’ll meet a bad end. But it won’t be here. Don’t bring him back, Captain.” Maven smiled thinly. “Oh, excuse me, Lord Northcliffe.”

  “I didn’t bring him here.” Wolfgang ignored Maven’s slur of the unexpected title he’d assumed a scant year ago. Actually he preferred Captain himself. “I haven’t a damn clue why I came to his rescue.” He paced the tiny room. “I should have left the chuckleheaded pup to fend for himself.”

  “You carved up a few of my best regulars.” Maven’s mouth cracked in a very dry, condescending imitation of a smile.
<
br />   “Best? You’re due for an upgrade in customers.” Wolfgang sighed, long and loud. “Give me his direction. Settle with my card partners and order my coach, then help me carry him out.”

  Despite the cool, bumpy ride back into the more fashionable residential districts of London, Fleetwood still lay unconscious when they reached a modest town house on Brook Street. The first rays of dawn streaked across the gray sky, providing enough light for Wolfgang to see the young man’s face. He was scarcely more than a boy and as green as the rawest recruits he’d seen fight for glory against Boney, only to die on a mud-soaked Spanish battlefield.

  Pulling Fleetwood out of the coach, he swung him over his shoulder, grimacing at the strong odor of whiskey on the man’s breath. Before he’d reached the bottom stair of the house, the front door inched open and a round face illuminated by candlelight peered down at him.

  “The young master’s home,” Wolfgang called out, climbing the steps to the entryway. “Where should I deposit him?”

  The servant pulled the door open and, glancing nervously up and down the street, gestured them inside. As Wolfgang moved to lower his charge to a chair in the hall, the man cleared his throat. “Could you please carry him upstairs?”

  “Do I look like a footman?”

  “Forgive me, sir.” The man’s round face took on a distinctly reddish cast. “Could you please carry him into the salon?”

  “Do you have a footman?” Wolfgang shifted his weight, Fleetwood still dangling over his shoulder.

  The pudgy retainer shook his head, eyes aimed at the floor.

  “Lead on, I’ll take him to his room, although I’m sure if I refused it wouldn’t be the first time he bunked on a sofa or the floor.” Steadying his grip on the drunken cub’s knees, Wolfgang followed the servant up the stairs.

  At the top of the stairs Fleetwood suddenly jerked. Struggling to maintain his balance, Wolfgang lurched into the wall, slamming his shoulder and Fleetwood’s backside into a portrait.

  “Bloody spawn of the devil.” Wolfgang regained his footing, as his little guide waved the candelabra before him. The door across from him swung wide, and a figure in white with a cascade of dark hair stepped into the hall.

  “Robin?” her husky voice questioned.

  “Master Robin’s a little under the weather, coming home with a friend,” the servant told her, then clasped Wolfgang’s arm with a surprisingly firm grip, directing him toward the nearest doorway.

  Wolfgang cast one last look at the woman in white, his connoisseur’s eye assessing her tall form, noting the slender hips and full breasts not quite hidden by the thin cloth of her night rail. He hurriedly laid Fleetwood out on the indicated bed, returning to the hall as the door across the way softly shut.

  Sauntering down the stairs, he grinned. Wolfgang Hardwicke, lecher and Good, Samaritan. Brushing off his hands he exited the house and jumped into the waiting carriage. In heaven’s log of good works, this deed would cover him for the next six months of debauchery: a little wine, a little gambling, and a lot of women. Clean, married women from whom he’d be unlikely to contract syphilis or matrimony. And if she met his criteria, maybe he’d start with that shapely apparition upstairs.

  CHAPTER 1

  PIZZICATO

  Plucking the strings instead of bowing them

  The threadbare wall hangings rippled. Robinson Crusoe Fleetwood blinked at the light shifting through the thin draperies and covered his ears in an effort to protect them from the thundering pianoforte notes. Zelly was launching a full-force Beethoven assault. And it couldn’t even be noon yet!

  Lord, his head felt like shattered glass. Why did he do this to himself? Maybe it was time to listen to Zelly, to call halt to the fast life. He massaged his throbbing temples. Damnation! His stake! He’d lost his last chance to turn things around. He’d been so sure, his luck so strong. He couldn’t lose. But lose he did—quickly, surely, miserably.

  He’d been playing with a crude hard-drinking crew, sure that he could outclass them … and there was a tall, dark man, not a denizen of the streets, but skilled with knife and fists.

  Robin yawned, rubbing his tender jaw. That tall, dark man punched him! He eased up gingerly. It was all coming back to him now. The man had cheated. His gaming partners caught the man and he drew a dagger, cutting the gamesters. Then he turned on Robin and landed a facer. Maven must have sent him home, but that damn cheat had his money.

  He stood shakily, straightening yesterday’s pantaloons and shirt. A splash of cold water cleared his head a little. Time to leave town. Put the creditors off his scent, till he had a new plan. He hadn’t been to the country seat in months. Moreton-in-Marsh would be a welcome sight. But first he had to face his father and Zelly …

  The dining room was empty, sideboards bare. He made for the kitchen and charmed a biscuit and some flat ale from his aunt’s housekeeper. If Sir Edward Charles Fleetwood, his father, was about, he’d be in the study pretending to peruse ledgers while he tippled a little brandy and read about the horses at Newmarket.

  Robin knocked softly, entering the small dark-paneled study without waiting for a summons. The elder Fleetwood sat motionless at the shabby cherrywood desk as expected, clutching a glass partially filled with amber liquid.

  “Father?” Robin shuffled across the faded Aubusson carpet, his voice low and uncertain.

  “Robin, my boy.” Sir Edward reached for the decanter. “Join me?”

  “Could use a little hair of the dog.” Robin took a small glass off a tiny corner table, passing it to his father to fill. He muttered, “I’m done up.”

  “You lost it all?” The older man handed him the half-filled glass, accusation in his voice. “But you told me you had the perfect game. How much did you drink?”

  Robin took the brandy, downing it in one gulp. “Had a couple of pigeons ready for the taking, but a high-flyer cleaned me out. When I cried cheat, he attacked me, knocking me cold. Knifed the other men. Don’t know who he was, but I’ll find him.”

  “And what in the devil’s name will you do when you find him? You’ve no skill with pistol, sword, or fists, Robinson.” Sir Edward scratched his head, mussing the thinning, gray hair. “Challenge him and you’re a dead man.”

  “I’ll find a way to deal with him. Besides, I’d as soon be dead as in debtor’s prison.” Robin threw himself into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands.

  “Zelly will find a husband who can settle your debts.”

  “But she don’t want to marry.” Robin’s tone was obstinate. “A man takes care of his own affairs.”

  “She’ll marry.” But his father’s expression belied the surety of his statement. “We’ve tried everything else. No banker or cent-per-center in London will touch us. And at the mention of money even my oldest friends disappear.”

  “More talk of money and marriage?” Zel paused in the doorway, staring hard at her father before striding into the room, her huge red-brindle Irish wolfhound at her heels. Her mood softened when she saw her younger brother sprawled in the chair before the desk.

  Robin rose, and she embraced him warmly. Spotting the bruising on his jaw, she grasped his chin. “You have been hurt! What happened?” She continued in a sharper tone. “You were doing more than drinking last night. You were fighting, and one of your friends had to carry you home.”

  “I got caught up in a fight.” He looked at the floor. “Not my fault.”

  “You have been in the hells.” She clenched her fists, pushing aside the image of Robin’s friend, his handsome face etched in candlelight. And that wicked grin when he spied her in her nightgown. “You were gambling again. What can I do to make you stop?”

  Robin’s voice echoed hollowly in the tiny room. “I was trying to win enough money to pay my debts, so you wouldn’t have to marry. Would have done it too, but I was cheated by some gentleman who doesn’t even need it. I’ll find a way to get it back.” He touched her hand briefly, moving to the open door. “I have to go. Won
’t be back for dinner. Tomorrow I’m off to the country.”

  Zel frowned fondly after him, as her dog nudged her elbow with a damp nose. Turning to her father, she could feel her face heat in anger, but she kept her tone cold. “I suppose I cannot expect you to control him, when you cannot control yourself.”

  “Damn, girl! Don’t fight me!” Her father rose, facing Zel eye to eye, glare to glare. The dog growled softly.

  “Mouse! Sit! Remus, I said sit!” Her voice escalated with her temper. “Why should I be the one to pay the price for your vices?” Zel rubbed eyes suddenly moist with tears. She wanted to hit him, throw things, but instead she concentrated on fighting back these stupid tears. Lord, she hated feeling so powerless and weak.

  “Wouldn’t ask for myself. I can’t stall the creditors much longer. They want the blunt now.” He lowered his voice, pleading. “Robin needs you, girl. Don’t let him go to prison.”

  “Stop calling me girl.” She ignored his begging as her hand twined in Remus’s wiry coat. “You let this happen again!”

  “No, I told him he was playing too deep.”

  “What about you, your debts?”

  He evaded her eyes. “My debts aren’t the problem.”

  Zel sank into a threadbare chair, Remus’s head following to her lap. She was tired, weary to the core of a battle that never ended. “Maybe I do need to marry, settle for you both this last time, then leave you to your own devices.”

  “I know you can do it. Gir … woman as bright and lovely as you should be able to land a wealthy husband. Could have done it long before, if you’d a mind to.” His lighter tone echoed his victory. “The problem’s those bloody women’s reformer ideas.”

  “Father, you know my feelings about marriage.” She sighed, massaging her neck. “After all, have I not had your example of what a husband can be?”

  “Don’t bring your mother into this.” Sir Edward bristled.

  “I spoke of you, not Mother.” Zel scowled at his ruddy face. “She was a better wife than you ever deserved.”

  “Zelly, despite what you think of me, your brother needs you.” The begging crept back into his voice.