The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  “Fleetwood, listen to your sister.” Wolfgang jumped to his feet at Zel’s other side. “She’s not my mistress.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that!” Robin sneered. “Why would you just hand over the money?”

  Wolfgang edged Zel aside, facing Robin directly. “I admire your sister and don’t wish to see her forced into a marriage that would make her unhappy.”

  Robin took a step forward. “Gets richer by the second. You concerned about my sister’s happiness?”

  “Yes, I am.” With obvious effort, Wolfgang kept his voice even as he folded his arms over his chest. “Buying your notes is nothing to me and everything to her. But you’ll pay me back, and to ensure that, I’ll control your finances.”

  “You wish to be my warden?” Robin raised a threatening fist, the tang of bitterness in his voice strong. Zel, fearing the confrontation would turn physical, tried again to pull him into a chair.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.” Wolfgang paused, stretching to his full height. “This arrangement is to protect your sister and teach you financial responsibility.”

  “You! Protecting my sister!” Robin rolled slightly on the balls of his feet, his voice booming in the small room. “Isn’t that rather like the fox guarding the henhouse?”

  “Robinson, dear, now keep your voice down and mind your temper.” Aunt Diana ordered gently as she bustled into the room, stepping neatly between the two posturing men. “Doesn’t the Bible say blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be … ah, filled. Or is it inherit something? Oh, at least they are blessed.” She took Robin’s arm. “Now let us all sit and work this out like the civilized beings we are.”

  Where in the demon’s lair was Jenkins? An out-of-work valet must have designed this clothing. The cuff could not be fastened with only two hands. Wolfgang tugged at the thin fabric, trying to keep the holes steady with the hand inside the sleeve while inserting the stud with the other hand. The cloth slipped from his grasp. The stud skittered across the floor. Hecate watched him silently, with unblinking eyes. “Damn, you’re no help.” The cat blinked once and proceeded to wash her paw. He gave up his bid for sartorial independence, yanking on the bell rope.

  Jenkins appeared before Hecate had moved on to her second paw. His teeth flashed white between scarred lips. “Has my lord been trying to dress himself again?”

  “Don’t harass me, just do it. You valets are all in league against your employers.” He grumbled, picking up the stud, pressing it in Jenkins’s hand. “I have no idea why I allowed you and Ridgemont to talk me into dressing formally for an at-home dinner.”

  “If one wishes to acquire a certain position, one must learn to play the part.” Jenkins quickly slipped the studs in place.

  “I know, I know, but why can’t the bloody Whigs be as radical about their dress and manners as they are about their politics?” He jerked out his arms for Jenkins to slide on the embroidered waistcoat.

  Jenkins worked his way down the row of buttons. “Do you go to see your lady tomorrow?”

  “My lady?” Wolfgang frowned down at the man’s snow-white hair. “The devil, but you’re a nosy old bastard.”

  “My parentage has never been in question. I was only wondering how the courtship progressed?” Jenkins lifted the finely tailored Weston jacket off the seat of a chair, grimacing as he shook out the wrinkles.

  “Courtship?” Wolfgang thrust his way into the dark green superfine jacket, straining the shoulder seams. “Can I not admire a woman without wedding bells ringing in everyone’s ears? For your information, she wants to be friends.”

  He twitched as Jenkins smoothed the jacket over his shoulders and back. Bloody friends, in a pig’s eye! He may have rescued her from sacrifice on the matrimonial altar, but she was not free of him. She could have her little friendship, but she would soon learn that a friendship with him did not mean gossiping over cups of tea.

  Great flaming fires of Hell! What did one do with a woman so wary of men? Her father should be shot and hung, then drawn and quartered. How could a man with any decency at all hit a woman? Even his own father, who thought nothing of beating his son inches short of death, never struck his wife or daughters. And after Zel’s father was diposed off, her brother should be poisoned. Slowly, painfully.

  He smiled grimly when he finally entered Hardwicke Hall’s formal drawing room. Rafael Langford, duke of Ridgemont, was elegant, as always, in his gray-and-midnight-blue formal attire, standing in a militarily correct pose at the mantel. Sir Frederick Ransley slouched his huge frame comfortably in a silk, cushioned settee, his black trousers and jacket wrinkled and well worn.

  “So, Wolf, when is the wedding?” Raf shook his hand, the corners of his sculpted mouth turning up in a half smile.

  “You’re already getting on my nerves.” Wolfgang growled, breaking away and pouring a substantial amount of brandy in a snifter. “And you just got here.”

  “Don’t do it. Don’t be a bloody fool twice.” Freddie straightened, eyeing Wolfgang warily.

  “I have no intention of being a bloody fool.” He flung himself into a carved teakwood chair, the brandy swirling dangerously near the rim of the glass. “My first wife will be my only wife.”

  “But you’re still seeing the chit.” Rafael curled one slender finger around his chin. “And the rumor mill churns on.”

  “Don’t see why you can’t stay away from them.” Freddie’s hand dwarfed the delicate china cup as he nodded sagely. “Women bring nothing but grief.”

  “Not all of us wish to live as monks, Ransley.” Wolfgang swung his feet onto a lion’s head footstool, challenge in his tone. They wouldn’t find it easy to circle in for the kill.

  Rafael took a gentlemanly sip of his brandy and raised perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Oh? That’s not what I hear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just repeating the word in my club, Wolf.” Raf exchanged a glance with Freddie before returning his attention to Wolfgang. “They say you haven’t been with another woman since you met her. Betting is fierce at White’s. It must be unbelievable at your club.”

  Wolfgang muttered, kicking the footstool as he yanked his feet off its delicately painted surface. “Damn clubs, bet on every bloody thing. A man can’t cross the street without a bet on whom he’ll bed on the other side.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” Wolfgang jerked to his feet, avoiding Raf’s see-all eyes.

  “Do you have a mistress?” Rafael persisted.

  “No!”

  “Then get one.” Raf smiled thinly. “Or marry Miss Fleetwood. Better yet, Wolf, do both.”

  “Ridgemont, leave off.” Freddie drained the black coffee, laced with Irish whiskey, from his cup. “They’re not betting at my club.”

  Rafael laughed harshly. “You don’t have a club, Ransley.”

  “But I’m welcomed in every tavern across England.”

  “The ones you haven’t torn up recently.”

  “True, but at least I’m not so stupid as to keep a mistress.” Freddie pulled at his already disarrayed neckcloth. “Maybe Wolf’s finally getting smart.”

  Wolfgang nodded his thanks to Frederick. “Right. I don’t need a mistress.”

  “And England will sink into the seas tomorrow.” Raf would allow no escape. “You obviously are not getting what you need from Miss Fleetwood.”

  “Satan’s satin slippers, Rafael!” Wolfgang paced to the window. “She’s a lady.”

  “So, you finally admit it. Now marry her and end your misery.”

  Freddie’s deep bass chimed in. “Or start it.”

  “She’ll never marry me anyway.” Wolfgang pushed at the heavy draperies, staring unfocused through the window-pane. “I freed her from the altar when I paid her brother’s debts. Plus she’s afraid of men and marriage.”

  “Wolf, no woman’s afraid of marriage.” Raf’s cultured voice enunciated very word. “So you did pay his debts? You paid the gaming notes
of a man who may want you dead?”

  “I thought it would put him in my debt, and he would back off.” He ran his fingers over the cool, smooth window glass, trying to center his thoughts.

  “But it didn’t work out that way.” Frederick commented so softly he barely heard it.

  “Fleetwood knew Zel was coming to see me to ask for help, and was furious. He thinks she has become my mistress.”

  “He knew she meant to approach you before the last attack?” Raf took off like a hound after the scent of a fox.

  “Yes, but it couldn’t be him.” Wolfgang met Raf’s searching eyes. “He might be happy to injure me for touching her, but he would never allow her to be hurt.”

  “If he hired the men, leaving the job to them, he wouldn’t know if she was there, let alone be able to protect her.”

  “Ha, Raf, as usual, you’re too bright for your own good.” Freddie eased the empty cup and saucer onto an inlaid end table. “The man’s done in. Where would he get the money to hire the footpads?”

  “It needn’t cost him much, Freddie, especially if he has favors to collect.”

  “So, he’s still a suspect.” Wolfgang balanced on the narrow windowsill. “How the hell can I befriend the sister when I may have to arrest the brother for trying to kill me?”

  “You’d better figure it out. The brother thinks you stole his money and debauched his sister.” Freddie stretched his big frame, then slumped back into the cushions. “He’s been in town the day of each attack. Good chance he’s your man, Wolf.”

  “Don’t jump too quickly.” Rafael turned to the fireplace, studying his reflection in the mirror. “We have other suspects to consider. What of your wife’s brother? It’s been five years since her death. But he still blames you. I know he’s threatened you, but is he angry enough to kill?”

  “God, I hate this.” Wolfgang pushed off the sill, stalking across the room. “Someone hates me enough to kill me.” He joined Raf at the mantel, scanning his own eyes in the silvered glass. “Simon has been nursing his hatred. Perhaps he’s ready to kill me, even without the duel I continue to refuse.”

  “That’s two strong suspects.” Raf’s eyes converged with Wolfgang’s in the glass, his voice soft and thoughtful. “And what of Newton? He’s been close at hand lately.”

  “That rivalry’s ancient history.” Wolfgang turned, leaning against the mantel. “He can be vindictive and cruel, but I’m not sure premeditated murder is part of his repertoire.”

  “He would get an unholy joy from making you squirm.” Freddie grumbled, surveying Wolfgang from behind thick, lowered brows. “But with no true aim of murder.”

  “Isadora has often been with him, as well as his new protégé, Melbourne.” Wolfgang mused aloud. “Perhaps they’re playing a dangerous parlor game.”

  “Possible.” Raf’s hand rested briefly on his shoulder. “What of your cousin and aunt?”

  “They’re ambitious and greedy. But what point to murder? My cousin, being the child of a sister, could not inherit the title or Cliffehaven.”

  “But they would inherit your money and the unentailed estates. And those alone are worthy of murder. You are also the last of the line,” Rafael speculated. “It’s unlikely but the crown may be willing, for the right price, to bestow the title through a female line.”

  “Quite a list we have, dear Wolfgang.” Frederick’s mouth almost cracked into a smile, but his eyes remained grim. “And we haven’t even begun to consider all those cuckolded husbands.”

  “Lucifer’s quizzing glass!” Wolfgang laid his forehead on the mantel. “Enough! Raf’s already beaten me with that stick.”

  “Where do we begin? Too many bored wives.” He could hear the wicked grin in Raf’s voice. “And Wolf has been dedicated to pleasing them all.”

  “But the husbands either didn’t know or didn’t care.” Wolfgang pleaded in his defense.

  “Except the ones you winged in duels.”

  “Damnation, you two are ganging up on me. I haven’t dueled in years.” He felt like he was sparring with Gentleman Jackson, in duplicate. “And I never killed anyone.”

  “Too good a shot,” Freddie mumbled, “didn’t need to.”

  “We come to an impasse, on the husbands.” Raf summed up, finishing off his drink. “But we have a substantial list of suspects. My men will continue their investigations. Freddie, have some of your unsavory cronies scout out the stews and docks. We need to find some footpads.” He signaled them up like an orchestral conductor. “What’s for dinner? I’m famished.”

  “He’s in the drawing room, miss.” Aunt Diana’s maid, Sally, giggled, poking her head through the bedroom door.

  Zel unfolded and rolled from the bed, sucking in her breath with the sharp cramp. No need to ask who “he” was. Wolfgang had called and stayed long past the proper visiting time the last two days and now was back for a third. Notes were purchased, agreements signed, plans set out. Father smiled happily. Robin frowned sullenly. But at least he seemed no longer on the attack. If only she did not feel so attacked.

  That was unfair. Wolfgang had been a perfect gentleman, too perfect. Perhaps that was the trouble. She waited, like a pheasant in the brush to be chased out to face the hunter’s gun.

  She stood, brushing aside the sudden wave of pain and nausea. Straightening her skirts, she made her way down the hall. Zel quietly opened the door to find him standing before the fireplace. Did the man never sit down, except on her skirts? His thick, black hair was tied back but curled around his neck. His shoulders, broad and muscled in his close-fitting jacket, tapered to narrow waist and hips. Her fingers tingled. She vigorously rubbed them, the soft noise drawing his attention.

  He whirled about, his quick, crooked grin fading to a pensive frown. “I thought you were healing, but you look so pale and pinched. What’s wrong?”

  “I have a bit of the headache.” She sat in a gold-brocaded settee, motioning him to sit in the chair opposite her.

  Wolfgang settled himself beside her on the settee, placing a hand on her forehead. “You’re not warm. Do you feel nauseated?”

  “I will be fine. Do not make a fuss.”

  “Would you like tea? Where’s the bell? I’ll ring for tea.” He rushed into the hall, calling for Smythe, before Zel could answer. She tried to rub the spasm from her abdomen, brows knit, body taut.

  “Satan’s horns, Zel, what’s wrong?” He was at her side, easing her onto her back, arranging pillows beneath her. “I’ll send for the doctor.”

  “I do not need a doctor.” She surely sounded too weak, her protest would need to be stronger to stop him. “I am not ill, this is normal, nothing to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about! You’re pale, almost ready to faint. You’re in pain.” Wolfgang knelt, cloudy eyes only inches from hers. “And you say this is normal?”

  “I swear, I will be fine, in a few days.”

  He frowned at her, then nodded knowingly. “Your courses. I should have known.”

  “Please …” Zel’s face heated. She did not know how to continue. This was not a subject one discussed with a man.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve been around women all my life.”

  “The tea, miss.” Smythe balanced the tea tray in the doorway, eyes darting about the room.

  Remaining on his knees, Wolfgang motioned to the nearest table. “Set it down. I’ll serve. Miss Fleetwood is a bit indisposed. Bring a hot water bottle, very hot, and brandy.”

  “I do not drink brandy.” Zel sat up gingerly, as Smythe silently left the room.

  Wolfgang fluffed up the pillows and nestled her back down, swinging her legs gently onto the settee. “Lie still. I’ll have you feeling better in no time. Now tell me where it hurts.”

  “My lord, please.” Her voice came out little more than a squeak, and she knew her skin glowed scarlet with embarrassment.

  “Now, don’t start ‘my lording’ me again, I thought we’d progressed far beyond that.” His long fingers
pushed her hair off her brow and temples. He smiled as he skimmed over the tips of her ears. “Try to relax, Gamine. You only make the pain worse when you tense up. Where does your head hurt?”

  “The left side, especially around the temple and eye.” Zel exhaled deeply as his fingers pressed gently against her temple, then circled her eye.

  “And your abdomen? Cramping?” He chuckled softly when she stiffened, anticipating his next move. “No, I promise I won’t stroke you there.”

  Smythe returned, placing his burdens on the table near the tea, frowning bravely at Wolfgang. Wolfgang showed his teeth, and the little butler scurried out of the room.

  “Let me lift you a bit.” Standing, he wedged his hands under her arms, shifting her more upright on the pillows. He pressed the hot water bottle firmly above the juncture of her legs and hips. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes.” Zel nodded as he closed the curtains.

  Wolfgang poured tea and brandy in a cup and raised it to her mouth. “Drink it.”

  She pursed her lips, wrinkling her nose. “I think that will make me feel worse.”

  “No, it’s better for you than laudanum and it will dull the pain.” Wolfgang pressed the cup edge against her lower lip. “Now be a good patient and take your medicine.”

  Zel sipped a little of the fiery liquid, sputtering as it hit her throat. She put a hand to the cup. “Enough.”

  “A few more sips, Gamine.”

  Reluctantly, Zel complied, feeling a warmth spreading through her chest.

  “Now, I need to disturb you one last time.” Urging one more sip of brandy before he set the cup aside, he then pushed her gently forward, removing several pillows, slipping onto the sofa beneath her. She tensed her back, pain shot to her head. “Relax, I’ll not harm you. I can soothe the pain.”

  Wolfgang slid a pillow onto his lap underneath her shoulders, another under her head. “There, you’re not even touching me. Now, breathe deep and long.” He smiled into her eyes as she tried to relax into the cushions. His fingers burrowed through her hair to her scalp. “There are pathways of energy throughout the body. When they become obstructed we experience pain and illness. The Chinese can unblock these pathways through application of steady, gentle pressure.” He pressed two spots at both sides of the base of her skull, massaging with tiny, circular strokes.