The Bride Wore Pearls

by Liz Carlyle

  “Alas, he is not a boy,” said Anisha grimly. “He is nineteen—and I daresay he’d much prefer your thrashing to the lifelong sentence he’s apt to get.”

  Anisha threw open the library door. Nothing. Raju’s study was the very same. As were the next two rooms. With Rance taking one side of the passageway, and she the other, they searched every room, then went up another floor.

  There they opened every door, checking under beds and inside cupboards, and finding nothing save a little dust the housemaids had missed. The last room was Tom and Teddy’s. Inside, both were soundly asleep. Milo’s cage had been brought up from the conservatory and covered for the night.

  They backed out, and Rance quietly closed the door, casting his gaze to the attics. “Surely not the servants’ rooms?”

  Anisha shook her head. “It must be the conservatory,” she said. “It’s so cold this time of night, but . . . yes. Quick, down the servants’ stairs.”

  Once back down, Anisha made her way quietly through the rear of the house, circling away from the parlor. The conservatory jutted out into the back gardens and was generally shut up for the night.

  The door, she saw at once, was unlocked. Her heart going still, she pushed through.

  At first, the long wicker chaise was just a shadow in the moonlight. Then her eyes adjusted, and she saw unmistakably the back of Luc’s head, and a vast expanse of Miss Rutledge’s ivory bosom as she lay back against it.

  Gasping, she threw up a hand to stop Rance. “Lucan!”

  “Bloody h—!” In one motion, Luc lifted his head from Lucy’s nearly-bare breast and leapt to his feet, shifting to block the view. “Knock, Nish, for God’s sake!”

  “Knock?” Anisha stalked toward him. “Knock? That is your answer? And Miss Rutledge! Kindly make yourself presentable.”

  “I’m p-presentable,” Miss Rutledge cried, obviously tugging at her gown. “Really, I was never n-not presentable. Not entirely.” Her voice ending on a hysterical note, she elbowed Luc hard in the thigh. “Oh, Lord Lucan, do move!”

  Luc moved. Lucy jerked to her feet, blinking against the lamp Rance carried in from the passageway. “Lord Lazonby!” she murmured, curtseying. “I beg your pardon.”

  “It is not my pardon you should be begging,” said Rance, his voice tight. “It is your hostess. Your parents. And your cousin, Miss de Rohan, whose evening you’ve nearly ruined. Lucan, you will come with me—and be quick about it.”

  Lucy Rutledge set a tremulous hand to her mouth and began to sob.

  Chapter 8

  My salad days, When I was green in judgment.

  William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra

  His temper barely in check, Lazonby dragged his quarry from the conservatory and pitched him headlong into the first room he saw—which was, thank God, Higgenthorpe’s thick-walled service pantry. Luc hit the counter, rattling the racks of china.

  Resisting the urge to slam the door, Lazonby shut it and shot the bolt, the sound cracking like a rifle in the small room. “Now what,” he said, rounding on the boy, “in God’s name did you think you were doing just now?” he roared.

  Luc cringed but stood his ground. “Just . . . kissing Lucy,” he said. “She—she didn’t mind.”

  “She didn’t mind?” Lazonby marched across the narrow room. “What has that to do with anything? Lucan Forsythe, have you any idea the hellfire you’ve just rained down on your own head? Or the shame you’ve caused your sister?”

  “We were just kissing,” Lucan repeated, looking mulish. “Kissing, I mean—for a while, but—”

  “Christ Jesus, Luc, do you think these people are nothing?” Lazonby cut him off. “Do you think they’re just simple country folk who’ll let you maul one of their daughters like a ha’penny whore, and throw her back at them again?”

  “It—it wasn’t like that!” Luc cried, backing up against the counter. “We just—she just—I lost my head. Rance, that’s all it was. She’s so pretty, and we were bored, and I just thought—”

  “You didn’t think, you grass-green fool!” Lazonby roared. “A cockstand cuts off the blood to your brain—good God, has Ruthveyn explained nothing to you?”

  Anger sketched across Luc’s face. “No, he’s been too busy gallivanting around fixing all the world’s problems.”

  “Aye, then, he’s a fool, too,” Lazonby returned. “And speaking of that brain-draining appendage, I trust I have sufficiently withered it by now?”

  The rest of Luc’s color drained. “S-Sufficient for what?”

  “Sufficient for you to go back in that room, get down on one knee, and do the right thing by Miss Rutledge.”

  Luc’s eyes tripled in size. “M-M-Marriage?” he managed. “B-B-But I’m just nineteen.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Lazonby retorted, “legally, and gladly.”

  “No. No. I shan’t do it.” Awkwardly, Luc seized the wooden countertop behind him. “You’ve taken leave of your senses.”

  Lazonby took a step nearer, clutching his hands behind him lest he give the boy the pummeling he deserved. “Lucan,” he said grimly, “my temper has grown increasingly short with you these past months. You’ve been little more than a trial to your sister. And that, my boy, has just come to an end. Anisha deserves your help, not your hindrance. She has two fatherless children to raise, for God’s sake. And if Ruthveyn cannot take you in hand, rest assured that I have no such scruples.”

  At last, Luc hung his head. “I’m bloody damn tired of everyone criticizing me,” he muttered into the floor. “I just wish my mother were alive.”

  “Aye, so that she could keep telling you the sun rises and sets in the crack of your arse, I do not doubt,” said Lazonby sourly. “But in spoiling you, she did you no favors, my boy. You are as ordinary as the rest of us, and you will do right by that poor girl. Your brother left you in my keeping and it’s my decision to make.”

  Lucan’s head jerked up, his eyes glittering angrily. “Oh, like you’re a candidate for sainthood!” he said. “That’s rich, Rance. Truly.”

  Lazonby bit back his first retort and drew a steadying breath. “Whatever I am, Luc, I have never debauched an innocent.”

  “And I have never murdered anyone and gone to prison for it,” said Lucan nastily. “Besides, Lucy won’t have me. She doesn’t want to be married. Ask her.”

  “Oh, trust me, my boy, she’ll want it when her mamma and cold, hard logic seize hold of her,” Lazonby answered. “Do you have any idea who that girl is?”

  Lucan shook his head, his golden curls springing out a little wildly now.

  “Her uncle is Lord Treyhern, a man you do not want to cross,” said Lazonby. “And his brother-in-law, Miss de Rohan’s father, is one of the most dangerous men in the Home Office. As to Lucy’s father, he wrote the book on hellfire. The last two chaps who crossed Bentley Rutledge got bullets for breakfast and didn’t live to complain about it.”

  Luc’s throat worked up and down. “I . . . I didn’t know,” he whispered. He forked all his fingers through his mass of golden hair, as if it might stimulate his brain. “God, you’re right. I didn’t think. B-But marriage?”

  “Aye, by God, marriage,” said Lazonby grimly. “And your only hope—and I do mean your only hope—is that your sister and I can hush this up and that Lucy’s parents will realize you are too damned green to make the chit any sort of husband at all.”

  Luc was visibly shaking now.

  Lazonby closed the distance between them and set a hand on Luc’s shoulder. “Now, Lucan, my boy, you must think carefully,” he said, his voice hard, but more kind. “You are a little spoiled, yes, but you are a gentleman at heart. In that, I do not doubt you. And this is what a gentleman does when he makes a grave mistake. He owns up to it. He does the right thing. I will stand by you, but it must be done. So go get it over with.”

  Head hanging, Lucan went.

  Lucy Rutledge was still snuffling on Anisha’s shoulder when they returned. Without preamble, Luc drop
ped to one knee—more in front of his sister than Lucy.

  “M-Miss Rutledge,” he managed, “I fear I let your beauty overwhelm my sense of pr-propriety. Will you do me the honor of becoming Lady Lucan?”

  “Oh, I just don’t know—!” she sobbed into Anisha’s sari. “Must I? Just for a little kiss? Have I no choice?”

  It was on the tip of Lazonby’s tongue to say that it had looked like a good deal more than just a kiss. But Anisha urged her gently away. “Whether you must is up to your parents, Miss Rutledge,” she said, looking the girl straight in the eyes. “But you are a lovely young woman. We would all of us welcome you into our family.”

  “Lucy,” said Lucan, his voice withering to a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  But Lazonby could not escape the notion that all Lucan was sorry about was the fact that he’d been caught. Still, he cleared his throat and smiled. “Well done, all!” he said, as cheerfully as he could. “Now let’s have no more tears, Miss Rutledge. Go back into the drawing room and kiss your cousin’s cheek. This is her night. Then, tomorrow morning, Lucan will call upon your mother and settle this business.”

  At last, Lucy turned to look at Lucan. “Will you?” she asked pitifully.

  Lucan opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His hair looked like a wild, golden halo now, and his shirttail was half out of his trousers.

  “He will,” said Lazonby. “And I suggest, Miss Rutledge, you prepare her.”

  Anisha returned to the withdrawing room, her heart in her throat. She could feel herself trembling inside. She tried to control her breath, tried to still her mind and take herself to a calmer place, but for once it was no use. She had to fist her hands to keep from flying at Luc with her nails. And, truth be told, she wanted to rail at her elder brother, too.

  She had come here in large part for Luc’s sake. She had believed Raju could tame the boy and turn his life around. But things had only gone from bad to worse with his incessant gaming and carousing. The extravagant bills. The flagrant flirtations. Luc’s behavior toward Grace during her early days as governess had been especially egregious, once even compelling the poor girl to jab him with a fork under the dinner table.

  And now this—potential social humiliation for all of them—when Anisha had meant only to do the right thing.

  Inside the withdrawing room, however, social humiliation did not seem especially imminent. Everyone had crowded, laughing, all around the sofas, and chaos seemed at hand. Miss de Rohan was leading the guests in a game, of all things, and lumbering about with one hand curled like a snout, and the other twitching behind like a tail while everyone shouted wildly.

  “Good God, charades?” Lucan muttered.

  “Horse!” Rance shouted, nonchalantly resuming his position by the hearth.

  “Elephant!” cried Lady Emelyn. “Lord Lazonby, isn’t she an elephant?”

  “No, she’s an anteater,” Geoff declared.

  “An anteater?” Lady Madeleine turned to look at him incredulously. “After all we spent on your education?”

  “I should have guessed aardvark,” Chip Rutledge drawled.

  Still trundling awkwardly about, Miss de Rohan grunted.

  “Pig!” screeched Lady Emelyn.

  “Yes, pig! Pig!” someone shouted.

  “Oh, foul!” declared Mrs. Rutledge, keeping one eye on Lucy. “You cannot make sounds, Anaïs! That’s cheating.”

  “Cheat! Cheat!” Chip shouted. “Anaïs always cheats.”

  Miss de Rohan smacked Chip hard on the back of the head, then fell onto the sofa beside her Aunt Treyhern, laughing hysterically.

  “Ça alors! We have descended into absurdity!” declared Lady Treyhern, shoving her off. “Get up, you buffoons. We must go home before we humiliate ourselves in front of everyone, especially Lady Anisha and her brother, who have been so very hospitable to us.”

  The lady’s graciousness made Anisha only feel worse. Within ten minutes, however, only Miss de Rohan, Geoff, and Rance remained, Lucan having at last slunk upstairs to lick his wounds, and Higgenthorpe having gone to bed at Anisha’s insistence.

  As the last of the Gloucestershire guests climbed into their carriages, Anisha closed the front door and fell back against it, exhausted. She yearned for her quiet space and her comfortable clothes; wanted to sit and focus solely on her pranayama, purging her mind of these last hours.

  In the entrance hall, Geoff cut a sidelong glance at his bride-to-be. “Well,” he said quietly, “do the three of you want to let me in on this? Or is it better if I know nothing? And by the way, Nish, if you’ve a picture gallery in this house, I’d like to know where.”

  Miss de Rohan rolled her eyes. “You must excuse my cousin Lucy,” she said. “She has never had much luck remembering that prayer book bit about ‘leading not into temptation.’ ”

  Geoff smiled wanly. “I suspected as much when you began carrying on like a lunatic to distract everyone,” he said.

  Miss de Rohan blinked. “To distract everyone?” she said innocently. “I beg your pardon, my love. I adore charades. Indeed, I could play it every night of the week.”

  “And all that berating your kin over their poor skills?” he murmured, staring down at her. “Cheating? Going out of turn? Flailing at one another? Nothing unusual in any of it, eh?”

  “Indeed, we are a happy, boisterous family,” said Miss de Rohan, stifling a yawn with one hand. “And we play to win. Besides, it’s too late to buck up about now, Bessett. You proposed too quickly, and you know what they say—marry in haste, repent at leisure.”

  “Hmm,” said Geoff. “We shall see who does the repenting in this marriage.”

  At that Rance guffawed. “I can place my wager on that one now.”

  Unperturbed as always, Geoff leaned into Anisha and kissed her cheek. “Thank you so much, Nish, for this evening. It was lovely.”

  Anisha felt a smile curl her mouth. “I believe I should thank Miss de Rohan,” she said. “That was quite a set of countermeasures, my dear. I think almost no one realized my brother was busy attempting to debauch your cousin.”

  Miss de Rohan patted her on the arm. “Oh, don’t fret over Lucy,” she said. “She’s like a cat, and always lands on her feet.”

  “Regardless,” said Rance, “Lord Lucan will wait upon your aunt tomorrow to grovel deeply. I’ll send word to Ruthveyn as soon as the date is fixed.”

  But Miss de Rohan’s eyes turned to saucers. “As soon as the date is fixed?” she echoed. “Oh, no. Lucy would just run off with a traveling circus—not, of course, that Lord Lucan isn’t a lovely young man.”

  Anisha felt a stirring of hope amongst the ashes. “You imagine the Rutledges will refuse Lucan’s suit?” she asked. “I vow, I do believe they are both too young and too selfish to marry happily.”

  “Practically speaking, we’ll all lay low and see if scandal bubbles up,” Miss de Rohan predicted. “If not, Lucy will be put back on a tight leash, or sent off to wait hand and foot on some elderly cousin for a few months, and that will be the end of it. Oh—wait, I almost forgot.” Snapping open the beaded reticule that swung from her wrist, she extracted a fold of paper and pressed it into Rance’s hand.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A name,” she said. “One of my father’s most trusted—well, no, most knowledgeable—associates.”

  “And?” said Rance, tucking the paper away.

  “And perhaps you should call on him?” said Miss de Rohan. “It’s a bit of a drive, but it will be worth it. He’s frightfully bored in the country, so tell him I sent you. Ask him what he knows.”

  Rance tilted his head to one side. “And what does he know?”

  “Oh, everything, more or less,” said Miss de Rohan brightly. “And that which he does not know, he can winkle out of someone—or threaten it out, if he must.”

  Then she, too, kissed Anisha’s cheek, and they were gone. Anisha stood in the open doorway until Geoff’s carriage was rolling down the drive, the wind off t
he river damp in her face, and Rance’s warmth at her back.

  “Well, Nish,” he murmured as she shut the door, “this could have been worse, I suppose.”

  On a faintly hysterical laugh, Anisha turned. “Truly—?” she said. “How?”

  But Rance had not stepped back. Instead, he merely looked down at her from beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “Well, the beef was perfectly done,” he said dryly. “The champagne was just the right temperature. Lucan had not quite deflowered the poor girl when we caught up with him. And you—well, you could have been going to Napier’s mother’s house for dinner, I suppose. That would be a bad sign.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Instead of the theater,” he clarified, his eyes darkening. “You did promise to accompany him to the theater, I collect?”

  She held up a warning finger. “Rance, do not start with me!”

  His jaw was set in that rigid, all-too familiar line. “I am not starting,” he said quietly. “I am finished, Nish. I don’t know what else I can say.”

  “Nothing,” she said, coming away from the door. “Look, do you want another whisky?”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “I ought to go, I suppose,” he said. “Are you tired?”

  “Tired of standing in the hall, yes,” she said, starting down the passageway. “Beyond that, I scarcely know what I am. I feel as if I’ve been nailed shut in a barrel and rolled off a cliff.”

  Lazonby knew the feeling. Resisting his instinct to go, he followed her back into the parlor and retrieved his glass from the mantelpiece. As Anisha drew shut the pocket doors that opened onto the withdrawing room, he filled his glass, and one for her as well.

  By the time she plopped back onto the sofa, he was pressing it into her hands. “I don’t drink spirits,” she said.

  “Tonight you should,” he said a little grimly. “Tonight we both need a drink.”

  He sat down beside her and watched as she took a little sip, her nose wrinkling most attractively. “Hmm,” she said. “That is an acquired taste, I believe.”