The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  “I behaved with the utmost discretion.” Zel felt her cheeks heat with her lie, and she looked down at her hands.

  Her aunt chuckled again. “Well, at least now you have some, ah … valuable experience, and we can go back to our schemes to land a husband. The worst-laid schemes of rats and men, no, not rats, mice.” She scratched at her chin. “What a strange saying. Why would mice be scheming with men, even badly?”

  Zel smiled warmly at her aunt, muttering under her breath. “Robbie Burns be rollin’ in his grave.” Remus barked softly.

  “Did you say something, dear?”

  “Only that we should finish our luncheon and attend to my wardrobe, which I hope to be a better part of our schemes.”

  “I’ll ring for Sally and we’ll undertake a fitting now, before I go out this afternoon. Are you sure you will not come with me?” Zel shook her head and her aunt continued, “You will be amazed at the gowns.… They turned out ever so much better than I dreamed. You will make quite the dash, a leader of fashion. And you will let Sally cut your hair.” She ignored Zel’s horrified look and went on reassuringly. “No, no, not one of those awful bobs. They are not the thing anymore. But your hair is so long and heavy and it falls so shapelessly. When you don’t have it pulled back in that dreadful knot. Just a little off around your face … a few curls around your forehead and temples, then a loose cascade at the crown.”

  “The ultimate sacrifice for my brother.” Zel grimaced. “I suppose I will not expire from a few curls, but no ringlets.”

  “Most certainly not, my dear.” Aunt Diana patted her arm approvingly. “The Mattinglys’ ball is tomorrow night.”

  “I shall begin, in earnest, my search for the weakest and wealthiest representative of the male animal in the British Isles.” She smiled with false gaiety. “Then I shall proceed to marry him and pick the guineas and sovereigns from his pockets.”

  Remus licked at Zel’s hand, then bounded to the doorway and stood attentively looking back at her.

  Robin’s raised voice carried through the closed door. “Damn, Father. I said I’d take care of this my own way.”

  “And I said to drop it.”

  Zel grimaced at her aunt. “They are at it again.” She pushed past Remus and flung wide the door. “Father, Robin. Come in and get a bite to eat.” She ushered her father to the empty chair beside Aunt Diana, motioning Robin to take the seat across the table. “What are you two bickering about now?”

  “It’s nothing that should concern you ladies.” Sir Edward glanced at Zel, then flashed a warning look at Robin.

  Sparing only a slight frown for her father, Zel sat beside her brother. “Robin, what are you taking care of your own way?”

  “Lay off, Zelly. It’s not your affair.”

  “I expect it is, or soon will be.”

  Father jumped in before Robin could respond. “He’s still after that man who took his money at Maven’s. He’ll get killed.”

  “Maven’s? The gambling hell?” Zel grasped Robin’s arm. “For once Father is right. Let it go, Robinson. I would much rather be married to an ogre than have you dead. Besides, you don’t even know the man’s name.”

  Robin stared at her, his face set in hard lines. “Made it my business to find out.”

  Sir Edward pulled the cold meat tray before him. “Don’t tell her, she’ll only interfere. Make it even worse.”

  “All of you leave me alone.” Robin jerked away from Zel and stood. “I’m dealing with this myself.”

  “Robinson Crusoe Fleetwood. Do not do anything foolish.” Zel reached for him again but he was almost at the door.

  “He’ll find out he’s not trifling with a fool.”

  “You’re a total mess, Captain, if you don’t mind me saying so.” Jenkins walked around the lacquered dressing table, tripping over the huge charcoal-gray furry object sprawled on the floor. “Blasted cat.”

  “And when did my minding ever stop you?” Wolfgang bent to pick up the cat and grinned at the tiny, white-haired man. It was good to be back at Hardwicke Hall where Jenkins could take care of him.

  An answering smile cracked the leathery face, lending a touch of the absurd to the ragged features. Jenkins’s rough youth lived on his face, his oft-broken nose, his crooked jaw, his uneven eyes, his missing earlobe. But his teeth, by some miracle, had endured, straight and radiant white.

  “Hecate, did you miss me?” Wolfgang scratched the cat’s fluffy head, then ran his fingers lightly over the offered throat.

  Jenkins brushed more dirt off Wolfgang’s jacket. “It won’t take but half an hour to repair you right.”

  “I don’t have half an hour. It’s long past the proper hours for making calls now.” Wolfgang took a quick glance in the glass. He looked like the wind had blown him in, and indeed it had. He had riden Ari hard, leaving his groom to bring in the phaeton. And his eye. Let her see it and feel bad, guilty, maybe even sorry for him.

  “Then make your call tomorrow.” Jenkins assumed his tone of propriety. “Your eye might look a bit better by then.”

  Jenkins hadn’t shown the least surprise over his eye, and Wolfgang found himself more than a little irritated. He was no longer a little ruffian fighting his way through Eton. And when he did fight, he was skilled enough to rarely be injured.

  “It can’t wait. By Mephistopheles! I can’t wait.” Stalking into the bedroom, he pushed aside the nearly sheer bed hangings and sat on the silken cushions of the low, wide bed. He extended his legs to allow Jenkins access to his boots, with Hecate still draped indolently across his arm.

  “What scrape are you in now?” Jenkins’s voice changed to piously indulgent, as he brushed the dirt off the black Hessians.

  “Why I allow you to talk to me like this I’ll never know. Do you realize no other employer would permit the liberties I do?” He continued to stroke the rumbling throat of the giant feline, purring back into her ear. “Would he, little witch?”

  “But Captain, you’re not any other employer.” The boots were nearly back to their usual mirror shine.

  Wolfgang laughed, deep in his chest. Jenkins had been with his family over thirty years, through childhood and youth, military career and marriage. It was not an exaggeration to admit that without Jenkins’s wisdom, courage, and unusual skills, he would never have survived childhood, let alone the later years.

  “Jenkins, I need to call on a lady. A lady to whom I have given grave insult.” Wolfgang frowned, toying with the tassel dangling from the pillow beside him. Hecate batted at the tassel with a deceptively quick paw.

  “Can we expect her family’s seconds to call?” Jenkins’s tenor voice was firm and steady, he didn’t miss a stroke as he brushed off the dusty breeches.

  “From what I know of her family, she would be more likely to fight a duel for them than vice versa.” His lips twitched. “But I am the villain of the piece and I must apologize to her today. If I leave it for tomorrow, she’ll never speak to me again.” He set down the complaining cat and pushed up from the cushions. “My phaeton won’t arrive for hours, so I’ll take the town coach. Could you see that it’s ready while I raid the kitchen?”

  Minutes later Wolfgang jumped into the coach for the short ride from his elegant graystone mansion on Berkeley Square to the little brick house on Brook Street. He could have walked, but the call warranted the coach with the earl’s crest. She wouldn’t be impressed, but maybe her family would.

  The speech he’d rehearsed on the neck-or-nothing ride to London seemed increasingly inadequate the closer he got to her home. How in hell did one apologize for attempting to bed a woman and at the same time soften her up for the next attempt? In all his experiences with women this was a new one for him. If he had a shred of decency … Lucifer’s misbegotten! He’d been over that argument before. No, he wanted Zel Fleetwood. And she wanted him. Those kisses in Lady Selby’s garden were proof of her desire. The coals had been stirred in that banked fire. All he needed now was to add more fuel, and he’d have
a roaring blaze.

  And if he didn’t have her soon, she could easily become an obsession, a symbol of unattainable passion, that he would be compelled to covet. The best way to kill the hunger was to taste the fruit. And this particular hybrid promised flavorful fruit, but just fruit all the same.

  The town house seemed smaller than he remembered from the night he brought her brother home. The knocker was up and no one was in sight. As he stepped down from the carriage, the front door was opened by the short, round man who had escorted him up the stairs to Fleetwood’s bedroom. Wolfgang handed the man his hat and card, watching as recognition spred over the ruddy Face. “I would like to see Miss Fleetwood.”

  “Miss Fleetwood?” The butler stifled an exclamation and ushered him into a small front salon to await his prey. “I shall bring her straightaway.”

  As soon as he disappeared a high-pitched attempt at a whisper carried easily through the open door. “It’s him.”

  “I know,” came the butler’s lower-pitched reply. “It’s the man who carried Master Fleetwood upstairs—how did you know?”

  “No, not that him. Look at the earl’s crest on the coach. And he’s got a fresh shiner.” The woman lowered her tone. “It’s Miss Zel’s rake.”

  Prince of darkness! Had Zel told her servants, and what had she told them? Soft footsteps echoed down the hall.

  He walked to the window, scanning a tiny garden, a tangle of wild blossoms, strange greenery, and untrimmed flowering shrubs. He spotted what appeared to be herbs and vegetables tucked in among the other foliage. The garden was practical yet unusual and lovely, like Zel herself.

  “She won’t see him.” The loud, shrill whisper resumed. “Says to tell him she’s not home.”

  “Hmmpff.” The rotund butler appeared in the doorway. “My lord, Miss Fleetwood is not in.”

  “Then I’ll wait until she is.” Wolfgang flashed his teeth.

  “But my lord.” The little man backed up a step. “She is not in, to guests.”

  “I repeat, I’ll wait until she is.” Settling onto a comfortable brocaded sofa, Wolfgang watched the butler’s florid face turn a deeper shade of red as he bustled out of the room.

  “He plans to wait.” The butler’s deeper tones were still audible, although they didn’t carry as well as the maid’s.

  “He can’t wait.” The high voice squeaked. “She won’t see him.”

  “Go talk to her. I can’t throw him out!”

  Wolfgang chuckled quietly at the thought of the little, fat butler tossing him down the front steps.

  Footsteps clattered down the hall and within moments clattered back, stopping outside the door. “She says to make him go, she won’t see him.”

  “How can I make him go? We haven’t even a footman.” The butler’s voice rose in pitch to match the maid’s. “Does she wish for me to take his arms and you his legs and carry him out?”

  With his face a brilliant scarlet, the butler stepped back into the room. “My lord, Miss Fleetwood is not and will not be home tonight. She asks that you leave.”

  “Then I’ll see Mrs. Stanfield. I’m sure she’ll receive me,” Wolfgang replied amiably.

  “Oh no, my lord, Mrs. Stanfield is attending a committee meeting and dining with friends afterward. She will not be back until late.” A thin sheen of perspiration highlighted the red on the butler’s face.

  “Then I’ll see Sir Edward Fleetwood.”

  “My lord, he is not in town.”

  “What about Mr. Fleetwood?”

  The short, round man sighed. “I will see, my lord.” The door shut silently. “Now he wants the young master.”

  “Master Robinson?” The high voice pealed. Footsteps trailed down the hall, paused, and returned. Wolfgang counted steps, fifteen total, seven there, eight back. “She thinks he went out hours ago. Heaven knows if or when he’ll be back.”

  The butler poked his head in the door, huffing in a few breaths. “Mr. Fleetwood appears to be out for the evening.”

  “I begin to see.” Wolfgang spoke patiently, as if to a child. “Mrs. Stanfield is out. Sir Edward is out. No one really knows whether Mr. Fleetwood is in or out. And Miss Fleetwood is in but out.”

  “Yes, my lord. I am so pleased you understand.” The little man begged, sweat circling his eyes, outlining his nose and upper lip. “I’ll show you to the door.”

  Wolfgang followed him into the hall, pivoted, and moved in the direction of the earlier footsteps.

  “My lord, you can’t …”

  A light-filled doorway beckoned from the end of the short hall. Before Wolfgang could take the last strides to reach it, a large—no, gigantic—dog padded quietly from the room, facing him, teeth bared, hackles raised.

  He put out a hand. “Nice doggie.”

  The shaggy-coated dog growled, a low rumbling sound Wolfgang could feel vibrating through his own chest.

  “Miss Fleetwood? Zel?” His voice lacked its usual assurance. Why didn’t she answer? He wasn’t about to be defeated by a dog, even if it was the size of a small horse.

  The growl shook him again, and he found himself backing slowly down the hall, the dog matching him step for step, teeth still bared, hackles still raised.

  “Miss Fleetwood?” Curse the woman! She was in that room, silently laughing at the big, bad earl, frightened off by a goddamn mangy beast from hell. Wolfgang took one step forward. The cur looked at him as if he were very stupid dog food and growled again.

  “You win for now, my furry friend.” He crept to the front door, easing out and slamming the heavy wood behind him.

  His military experience told him retreat was often the wisest course, but having met the cannons of Napoleon head on, Captain Wolfgang John Wesley Hardwicke felt like a fool backing down from a dog. Time to fall back and analyze his foe, and plan a new strategy to induce her surrender.

  Melbourne peered around the brightly lit gaming room. Newton usually frequented the whist tables at Brooks’s but obviously not tonight. He finally ran the earl down playing faro, of all things. He watched Newton win the next two hands and gather up his counters, then tapped the older man on the shoulder. “Let’th have a bit of thupper.”

  Newton gave him a half smile, more a sneer, and stood. They moved to the dining area and summoned a waiter.

  “Give us the beefsteak and whatever fowl and vegetables the cook had the urge to boil tonight, and keep the brandy coming,” Newton ordered, leaning his tall frame back into his chair.

  “Playing faro?” Melbourne was truly puzzled, a too frequent occurrence in this friendship. “You alwayth win at whitht, why bother with faro?”

  “The whist tables were slow tonight and I was feeling extraordinarily lucky. So I changed my game and won a tidy little sum.” Newton ran cold, dark eyes over Melbourne, that slim smile again twisting his lips. “But come, sir, you’re positively brimming over with something. Spit it out.”

  “I wath arranging for one of my footmen to watch Northcliffe, like we planned, when another thervant told me he thaw him come out of a house down the thtreet, looking motht unhappy.” Melbourne paused for dramatic effect. “Mith Fleetwood livth there with her aunt.”

  Newton’s icy chuckle was all the reward he desired. “Ah, Melbourne, you’ve done well. I’ll warrant she refused to receive him, and the arrogant cur couldn’t believe it.”

  “I thought thomething like that too.” Melbourne’s pride could have burst right through his chest. Pleasing someone as clever as the earl of Newton … well, it didn’t happen every day.

  “It warms my heart to see someone refuse him. The chit’s got spirit.” Newton scratched his mustache. “But she’s no match for him. I fear her capitulation is inevitable if he continues his attack. Shall we help her fortify her defenses or shall we sadly watch her defeat?”

  “Man like him can get any gel he wanth.” Melbourne sat up eagerly. “Let’th help her.”

  “We could help by spreading the word that she blacked his eye.” Newton pushed
a lock of brown hair off his high forehead.

  “Do you think it’th true?”

  “Whether she did or not is beside the point.” Newton’s tone was sharply impatient. “The point is to make people believe she did, thereby taking Northcliffe down a notch or two.”

  “But won’t that hurt her too?” Melbourne hedged warily.

  “A little. We won’t say he got away with anything or that she was to blame in any way. Just that he tried and she defended her virtue.” Newton smiled reassuringly. “It might even enhance her standing, give her an air of adventure, mystery.”

  “I gueth that won’t hurt her.”

  “We can take it slow, just a few words here and there, an amusing anecdote whispered in the right ear.”

  “Thupper’th here.” Melbourne inhaled hungrily as the plates, platters, and cutlery were laid.

  “Such as it is.” Newton snorted. “Brooks’s isn’t known for its fancy fare. But that’s not why we come here.” He speared a bite of boiled potato. “I believe I’ll place a little wager in the betting books after we eat. I’d like to be the first.”

  “The firtht?” Melbourne spoke through a mouthful of steak.

  “To place a bet on our lovers.”

  Dinner, brandy, a bit more gossip, a few hands of cards and a few shakes of the dice later, and Melbourne was ready to call an end to a satisfying evening. He stopped to check the betting books on his way out.

  Frowning, he read Newton’s bold scrawl.

  “Match all comers. Earl of N. will bed Miss F. before the season is out.” Signed, “WJWH.”

  CHAPTER 5

  COLORATURA

  Ornamental trills and runs in vocal music

  “I cannot go through with this.” Zel watched through the back window of the hired hackney as the house disappeared and they rattled their way toward the Mattinglys’ Richmond mansion.