The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  “Fool or no, are you sorry you married me? Do you wish you’d braved the scandal?”

  “No, Wolfgang.” She shifted her head to kiss his jaw. “And I had decided to marry you before we were discovered.”

  He took her chin in hand, probing her eyes with his silver gaze. “That’s why you took it so well. You never said a word.”

  “I had only just decided.” Zel looked away, suddenly shy. “And I was waiting for you to ask again.”

  Wolfgang hugged her to him, laughing into her hair. “I would have asked you, but you kissed me and the next thing I knew we had an audience to our little scene on the settee.” His inhalation was ragged. “What changed your mind? Did you decide I might be different from the other men in your life?”

  “I think you are not at all like my father, uncle, Maggie’s husband, or those men who drive their wives to Aquitaine House.”

  “Thank you.” He gently kissed her eyes and cheeks. “Now what did you need to talk to me about?”

  “I hate to bring it up now. I don’t wish to burden you with my worries.”

  “If my burdens are yours, then yours are mine.” He twined a finger in the loose hair at her ear. “Tell me, Gamine.”

  Zel hesitated, cleared her throat, and coughed it out. “It’s Robin.”

  “What now?”

  “I think he’s drinking more and has new gambling debts.”

  “I’ll chain him to his bed. I can put it out that if anyone accepts his notes, they’ll answer to me.”

  Before she could answer, the door swung wide. Sir Frederick Ransley ducked through the opening, hair windblown, boots and breeches spattered with mud.

  “Lucifer and the hounds of hell! Freddie! What are you doing here?”

  Zel squirmed to free herself, but Wolfgang held on tighter.

  Ransley scowled at her, obviously displeased, but with her perch on Wolfgang’s lap, her loosened hair, or her mere presence, she couldn’t tell. “I need to talk with you, Wolf.”

  “Talk away.”

  The giant of a man looked pointedly at Zel. “Alone.”

  Wolfgang smiled. “You can speak freely before my wife.”

  “Alone, Wolf.”

  “I need to meet with the housekeeper.” Zel slid from Wolfgang’s arms. “Sir Frederick.” She nodded and quickly left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  “Your rudeness is overwhelming.” Wolfgang stood, staring at the closed door before turning to scan his friend’s rough face. “Should I call you out for insulting Zel or listen to the seemingly important news you have to impart?”

  “Wolf, you won’t like what I have to say.” Ransley loosened his already sloppy cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Blast, but I have to say it.”

  “It couldn’t be so important you can’t have a drink first. You look like you could use it.” Wolfgang opened a corner cabinet, withdrawing a decanter of liquor and two glasses. He poured healthy doses, handing one to Freddie, setting the other glass and decanter before him on the desk. “Sit and drink.”

  Freddie pulled up a chair directly across the desk from Wolfgang. “I’m not sure where to start.” He took a large gulp of the amber liquid. “You know we had word that a John Pettibone had been acting the part of a footpad.”

  “Yes, get on with it.” Wolfgang flopped into his chair.

  “We’ve been questioning Pettibone’s friends and relations.” Freddie took another swallow. “I returned from Pettibone’s father’s estate in Cheltenham, then met with Raf.”

  “It’s not like you to be so long-winded. Cut to the chase.” Wolfgang sipped the spirits and coughed. Whiskey! Satan’s starched neckcloth. Where was his brandy? Who put this nasty stuff in his liquor cabinet?

  “Pettibone’s bragging corresponds directly with the attacks on you—the two footpad incidents and the shooting in the park. He was in town on all three occasions.”

  Wolfgang stood, pushing back his chair. “But I don’t even know the man. What does he have against me?”

  “Nothing, but he is indebted to someone who does have a grudge.” Freddie paused, examining his now empty glass. “Pettibone hangs about with a young crowd of drinkers and gamblers. He owes everyone money, but his creditors won’t go for blood while his father lives.”

  “Enough, Freddie!” Wolfgang slammed his glass on the desk, spilling the pale liquid on the smooth lacquered surface. “Just tell me. It’s Robin.”

  “It’s Robin Fleetwood.”

  “Satan’s body, Lucifer’s blood.” He collapsed into his chair. “Flames of hell.”

  “I’m sorry, Wolf.” Freddie poured more whiskey. “I wish it were otherwise, but Fleetwood and Pettibone have been comrades in cards and cups for years.”

  “That could be coincidence.” He threw back a portion of the rank drink. It took some of his throat with it going down.

  “No, there’s more.” Freddie toyed with his disheveled cravat. “Fleetwood held some of Pettibone’s numerous IOUs. When Fleetwood was on the road to debtor’s prison he fought bitterly with Pettibone, trying to convince him to borrow from his wealthy father. But Pettibone’s father has all but disinherited his son, and Pettibone couldn’t risk word of more debts reaching the old man. Also there are stories about that Pettibone has played at highwayman and footpad in the past.”

  Wolfgang ran a finger through the little puddle of spilled liquor. “Sounds a bit farfetched—”

  “I thought so too, at first.” Freddie cut in. “But I found another footpad who admitted he was hired by Pettibone. I agreed not to prosecute him in exchange for information—”

  “Just say it, Freddie.” Wolfgang downed his whiskey and poured another glass. At this rate they’d be three sheets to the wind before the conversation reached its ugly conclusion.

  “The man said Pettibone complained of being blackmailed to do the deeds by a supposed friend.”

  Wolfgang groaned, gulping more whiskey.

  “I’m not through yet. Word in the clubs has it that Fleetwood still thinks you fleeced him and seduced his sister. Plus your hold on his purse strings is tight as a death grip.”

  “The first attack on me occurred the night following the fight at Maven’s.” The whiskey still burned a little on his raw throat, but it wasn’t too bad. He could get used to it. “For some reason Robin decided I cheated him out of his money and knocked him out for good measure. Maybe he was too drunk to remember correctly. That night was the first time I saw Zel.”

  “If he disliked you enough to attack you then, your subsequent involvement with his sister could only have made matters worse.”

  Wolfgang felt a bit fuzzy, the damn whiskey was already going to his head and he didn’t feel any better. “But there hasn’t been an attack since I paid his debts.”

  “Not yet. After the last failed attack and after the debts were paid, Pettibone told his hired henchmen they’d have to try again.” Freddie poured more whiskey in both their glasses. “What else, besides revenge, does he have to gain by your death?”

  “The marriage settlements.” Wolfgang rubbed his eyes but it didn’t clear his vision. “Mephistopheles, that’s not promising. He may think to get his hands on Zel’s widow’s portion.”

  “How large are the settlements?”

  “Most of my unentailed estate.”

  “Gads, man, most of London would kill you for that fortune.” Ransley yanked on his cravat. “But Wolf, there’s more. Raf heard at Brooks’s that Fleetwood was looking through the betting books and found some wagers regarding you and his sister.”

  Wolfgang flew out of the chair, bumping against the desk. “He can’t blame me for those fools who bet on anything.”

  “Ah, but there’s the problem, several entries were signed with your initials, WJWH.”

  “By the devil, you know I never even look at those books.”

  “But Fleetwood doesn’t know that and he was furious.” Freddie examined the half-empty decanter. “He was heard muttering ‘Northc
liffe’s a dead man.’ You’re in danger. We should move for his arrest.”

  “No!” Wolfgang shouted over the din in his ears. His head felt light, his vision clouded. He eased back into the chair, head lowered, crouching there, bringing his hands over his face.

  “Wolf?” Freddie was at his side, a large hand resting on his shoulder.

  “I—I’m fine …” he stammered. “Give me a minute.” Arrest Robin? God in heaven, Lucifer in hell. Freddie had no idea what he asked. It would destroy everything he had with Zel, everything they could have. Their marriage would be over. He took a deep, rattling breath, lifting his head. “Freddie, I admit it doesn’t look good for my brother-in-law.” He took another breath. “Will Pettibone testify against him?”

  “That’s a problem.” Freddie resumed his seat and polished off another glass. “We can’t find the man.”

  Wolfgang’s half-suppressed sigh was answered by a tightening around his friend’s mouth. “Are you interested in preserving your own life? Or would you prefer to be shot or bludgeoned to death? Perhaps poison is more to your liking?”

  “Of course I don’t wish to be murdered.” He twisted the stopper around the mouth of the cut-glass decanter, nearly oversetting it. “Not the most heartening news … to discover my mortal enemy is my wife’s brother.”

  “If you won’t put the man away, what are you going to do?” Freddie poured still another drink and eyed Wolfgang skeptically.

  “I don’t know … for right now, I could use another drink.” He held a shaky glass out for Freddie to fill.

  “You need to hire a runner to watch young Fleetwood and a few more brawny footmen to keep an eye on you.”

  “It won’t do any good.” The Scottish whiskey flowed roughly down his throat. “He runs tame in my house.”

  “Then rein him in.” Freddie’s voice rumbled in his ears.

  “And what do I tell Zel?” His tongue was thickening.

  “Tell her the truth.”

  “The truth?” Wolfgang laughed. “What the hell do you know ’bout women?”

  “Sir Frederick?” Zel watched Wolfgang’s huge friend start up the stairs, a familiar human bundle draped over his shoulder. “Wolfgang?”

  “He’s had a bit too much whiskey.” Ransley carried Wolfgang’s sizable frame as if it were no bigger than a child’s. “I thought I’d take him to his room.”

  “Ze … e … el.” Wolfgang, barely conscious, sounded out her name into Ransley’s back.

  She stepped behind Ransley and found Wolfgang’s head buried in the bigger man’s jacket. “We’re putting you to bed.”

  “Only if … you come with me.” He turned his head, trying to smile. “Gam … ine.”

  Zel stepped past Ransley and his boneless burden, leading the way up the stairs into Wolfgang’s chambers. “Lay him on the bed. We can manage to undress him without calling Jenkins.” She pushed aside the silk bed hangings.

  “Sorry, Lady Northcliffe, he doesn’t usually drink much.” Ransley frowned apologetically. “He tried to keep up with me.”

  “Bed … time?” Wolfgang settled into the Chinese embroidered cushions scattered on the bed as Zel bent over him, pulling off his loosened cravat. “Shouldn’t we wait … Freddie leaves?”

  “Your friend is helping me.” Zel started on the shirt buttons. His jacket was long gone, the waistcoat already opened.

  “We need … help?”

  “You are in no shape to do anything but sleep.” She turned to the silent man standing beside the bed. “Sir Frederick, can you lift him a bit so I can take off his waistcoat and shirt?”

  As Ransley shifted Wolfgang to a sitting position, Zel slipped off the clothing, baring his chest. Wolfgang shivered when her hand attacked the fastenings to his pantaloons. He snaked an arm about her waist, “Eager wench … kiss me.”

  Zel batted his arm away. “Stop it.” He grinned crookedly and allowed her, with Ransley’s help, to remove his pantaloons and smallclothes. He pushed away the nightshirt she attempted to pull over his head, face scrunched like a defiant boy’s.

  As she tried to pull the bedclothes over him, he hauled her in close. “Stay … Freddie, go.”

  “Sir Frederick, thank you.” Zel nodded as the hastily departing figure bowed slightly, then closed the door behind him.

  Wolfgang sighed, cuddling against her, his head at her breast. He smelled. Not his usual aroma of horses, leather, and trees, not even his occasional sweet brandy smell, but a sour, overpowering odor. Like her father. Whiskey.

  Grunting, hands at his chest, she tried to push him away. His arms tightened about her. “Need you … Zel.”

  She stilled, his words echoing in her ears, whiskey smell forgotten. Her hands curled over his shoulders and neck, fingers stroking his loosened hair. A painful swelling grew in her chest. She wanted to keep him in her arms, protect him from all the past hurts, his deceased father and all those horrible tutors and teachers. To tell him again and again, until he believed it, that he was bright and quick, that his mind was superior, that he had nothing to be ashamed of. And since when did a politician need to read or write? They all had secretaries to do that.

  This must be what a cat, lioness or tabby, felt when her kittens were threatened. This was something like what she felt for her brother. But it was different, and not because she had feelings for Wolfgang that were in no way sisterly. She protected and sheltered Robin, gave love and compassion knowing there would be no return, knowing that his taking was her only reward. Wolfgang gave, drew out, then filled needs in her she hadn’t known existed. He satisfied her physically, of that there was no doubt. And he made her laugh. But he also gave her respect, admiration, and trust. She never doubted for a minute that he saw she had a mind and expected her to use it. Maybe they could build a marriage with a kind of partnership she had never believed possible.

  Zel held him secured at her breast, his breath warm through the thin muslin of her gown, his chest rising and falling evenly against her stomach and abdomen.

  She had never seen him drunk, never seen him drink more than a couple of brandies in a night. Somehow it touched rather than disgusted her, not like her father’s drinking at all. It brought to mind a boy experimenting with adulthood, stealing his father’s whiskey. But there was more, a less familiar dark undercurrent, a frightened, vulnerable man beneath the rebellious boy.

  Pulling him closer, wishing to share his fears, she whispered into his soft, black hair, “God, how I love you.”

  Wolfgang blinked, but the sunlight glaring through the crack in the curtains wouldn’t go away.

  What in Satan’s name had he been thinking last night? Whiskey. He’d sooner drink spirits of turpentine. The stuff must have been his grandfather’s. And keeping up with Freddie? He hadn’t attempted that stunt since Cambridge.

  He stretched a tentative arm across the bed. No Zel. He frowned at the empty pillow, remembering how she’d held him close, stroking his hair. Then when she was sure he slept she whispered those ever so faint words, “I love you.”

  She loved him.

  How the devil was he supposed to feel about that? Shouldn’t he be happy? It was what he wanted. Then why did he feel like someone had blown a hole through his chest?

  How could he build a life with the sister of the man who wanted him dead? The man he should transport or hang. Wolfgang sat up in bed, pain vaulting through his head in relentless waves. Zel would never believe Robin guilty, she would support him to the ends of the earth. Her capacity for loyalty and commitment to Robin was boundless and blind. She might whisper words of love when she thought her husband slept, but that could never compare to the years of almost motherly devotion to her brother. How could less than two months stand up to over twenty years?

  Wolfgang had hoped even if Robin was guilty that the payment of his debts would defuse his anger. He stood, holding on to his pounding head. But the debts were not the entire problem. Robin had also been suspicious of Wolfgang’s intentions toward Zel, and
for good reason. Now Zel said Robin was drinking and gaming again, and Freddie had some story about wagers at Brooks’s. Zel couldn’t know anything about the wagers or he would have heard.

  He rang hard on the bell for Jenkins. Damnation and the bottomless pit! He couldn’t tell Zel the truth. He wouldn’t have Robin arrested, yet, but if there was another attempt on his life, his hand would be forced. Meanwhile he’d wait around to see if he was shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, or poisoned.

  Rubbing his forehead, he tried to focus his thoughts. What of Zel’s safety? She’d jump in to protect him if he were attacked, and Robin’s inept assassins could injure her again. He couldn’t win. If he arrested Robin, he’d lose Zel. If he did nothing, both of them could be killed.

  There had to be a better answer. He could send her to the country. Wolfgang laughed bitterly. Zel had business at Aquitaine House and was not a woman who would blindly obey her husband anyway. Nor would he want her to be. But he could stay away from her, keeping the danger to himself. They could stay in London but go nowhere together. He should not share her meals. He would even have to avoid her bed. She’d be safe, he’d go mad. God, it couldn’t be so difficult, most of the ton lived that way. It would also prepare him for the nightmare to come when he had to arrest Robin.

  Impatiently Wolfgang endured Jenkins’s attendance to his dress, gratefully drinking the nasty concoction his invaluable valet had learned to make on the Peninsula.

  As he eased himself down the stairs, he heard the stately strains of Handel on the ancient harpsichord. Much better hangover accompaniment than Beethoven or that other fellow, Bach.

  He walked into the room, standing quietly behind her. Zel stopped, bending until her forehead rested dischordantly on the keys.

  “Zel?” He slid beside her on the bench. “What is it?”

  She sat upright, slowly, eyes overly bright, voice faint through clenched teeth. “It’s that damn time of month.”

  “Why are you playing?” Not waiting for an answer, he took her arm, leading her from the room. “Upstairs you go, to bed.”

  On the stairs to her room he sent a young housemaid scurrying for tea. He helped her out of her morning gown, into a silk wrapper, then tucked her under the bedclothes.