Spenser knocked at the door to Peter’s antechamber and announced that luncheon was served. Peter merely nodded and headed that way, double checking the inner pocket of his waistcoat to be certain the license remained where he had placed it.
His footman (who had, blessedly, returned to his proper position) opened the double doors before him and announced his arrival.
Peter looked around the table and cursed beneath his breath. “Where is Jane?” Everyone else was precisely where he expected them to be. Trust his lovely fiancée to complicate matters, yet again. She certainly had a knack for it.
“She had quite an eventful evening, dear,” said his mother. “I haven’t had the heart to wake her.”
The minx had better be well rested, if she was still abed at this hour. Perhaps she had managed enough sleep for the both of them. Of course, that would do nothing for his rapidly building temper.
Sophie coughed. “Sorry, so sorry. That bite went down wrong is all. I’m quite all right.” She flushed and turned her attention back to her meal.
“Did you get the license?” Charlotte asked. “Mama and I made arrangements with a vicar of a small church nearby. He’ll perform the ceremony this afternoon if you have the license.”
“Really, Peter,” Sophie interjected. “Can’t you allow her a week to prepare? Or at least a few days. This is all rather sudden, you know.” She took a bite of the cheese she had been holding for several moments and grimaced. “Oh. I thought this wouldn’t be so sharp.”
“You said that the last time you tried that cheese,” Charlotte said, then turned to Peter. “She does have a point though. Why the rush? You announced the betrothal at the ball last night. I should think that would be enough to hold the gossips over, at least for a week.”
Giving her more time would simply delay the inevitable. And it would give her more time to try to change his mind. Which he would not be doing. “We’ll marry today. Mama, will you please come with me. I need to wake my bride.”
Sophie rose so quickly that she bumped her knee on the table, then bounced around in a little pain dance. “Wait.”
Peter closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for patience. “Wait? Sophia, she’s had more than enough time to rest. Jane must get up and begin preparing herself.” Could his sisters truly not understand the urgency of the matter? Good Lord. He turned to his mother. “Please, come with me.”
“No!” cried out Sophie. She rushed in front of him and placed both hands on his chest, as though she could forcefully stop his progress.
He glared at her and removed her hands from his body, pushing her to the side so he could continue.
“What on earth has gotten into you today?” Mama asked as she followed behind him.
Sophie chased along behind them, squeezing her way past him on the stairs and yet again stopping directly before him. “I can’t allow you to do this, Peter.”
“To do what, precisely?” he growled. A twitch that had been forming since sometime the previous evening was now pulsing out a tattoo on his temple. “Are you attempting to save your friend from marriage? Or just from me?”
“Well, neither. Not exactly, at least.” His sister, usually so calm and level-headed, was now biting her lip. He had rarely seen the like from her.
“Then what, exactly?” If she didn’t give him a straight answer about her current antics in the next thirty seconds, he was liable to lose his temper and rip her head from her neck.
He never lost his deuced temper. Or rather, he never lost his temper until she tumbled into his life. Jane. Now it seemed to be happening on a recurring schedule—one that was intensifying in frequency.
And he was going to be bloody well married to her.
“I...er...well, Jane isn’t up there. In her chamber.”
Sophie’s eyes widened as he glowered at her, advancing slowly up the next stair until he towered over her from the stair directly beneath her.
“In the house,” she amended with a squeak.
“Am I to understand that you know where my betrothed is?” he asked as softly as he could manage.
Sophie nodded emphatically. “But I can’t tell you.”
Peter grabbed hold of her wrist, half-dragged her the rest of the way up the stairs, and pulled her into the nearest room, slamming the door closed after Mama came through. The last thing he needed was for his servants to overhear him bellowing at his sister in the front of the house, or for a visitor to arrive while he was in a full temper.
Peter shoved his sister into a chair and leaned over her. “You can’t tell me? Or you won’t tell me?” He neglected to even attempt to keep his voice down.
She bit her lip. “Both.”
Impertinent chit. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why,” he roared, “do you refuse to tell me the whereabouts of my fiancée? The woman I intend to marry today. The woman I compromised last night. The woman you’ve treated as your bosom friend these last months. The woman you’ve been virtually inseparable from, and therefore whose welfare you must care about a great deal.”
“Because she asked me not to tell you.”
He heaved a sigh and dragged a hand—a hand that was desperately itching to box something—through his hair. “And why did she ask such a favor of you?”
“You would have to ask Jane that question.”
The urge to strike a woman had never consumed so fully him before now. Not ever. He took two steps back to be certain not to give in to his instincts. “I can’t very well ask her if I don’t know where she is, can I?”
“No, I suppose not.”
He had to give Sophie some credit. Most men would have cowered in fear from him, the way he was bellowing and raging at her. But she sat there, unwavering. Her eyes widened a time or two, but she never even flinched.
Jane had clearly won his sister’s devotion. While he was glad she had a friend so fully in her court, now was not the time for such antics.
“Peter, why are you so upset she’s gone?” Sophie asked. “You ought to be relieved. She granted you a reprieve.”
“A reprieve?” he roared. “From what?” Good God, Sophie was acting like an utter nitwit.
“From a marriage which, obviously, neither of you wants. Your first marriage was just that. Jane is simply making certain that you aren’t stuck in the same circumstances as before—in a loveless marriage.”
“It won’t be a loveless marriage. It won’t be the same as before.”
She stood and faced him with shrewd, narrowed eyes. “You admit it, then?”
“Admit what?” Could she not give him an inkling as to what she was talking about? He would never understand how or why women felt the need to talk in circles instead of just getting to the root of the issue.
“Mama,” Sophie asked, “did you hear him?” She turned to their mother, who had stood quietly and watched the scene unfold up to that moment.
Mama’s face glowed with joy. Good God, how could she be happy now, when his entire world—everything he’d planned—was falling apart around him?
“Yes. I heard him.” She moved toward them and took Sophie’s hand in her own. “That is just splendid.”
“What’s going on?” The women in his life were determined to be the death of him. And if he didn’t take care, they might just succeed.
“Calm down,” said Sophie. “I’ll tell you where Jane has gone. But we’ll have to come up with a plan to convince her to return before I tell you, because I know you. As soon as you know where she is, you’ll barrel out the door and try to force your way inside. And that, dear brother, will never serve your cause with her.”
His head throbbed. “What have I done to change your mind?” Nothing made sense.
“Oh, nothing really. And everything.”
“You love her, Peter,” Mama said. “You love Jane.”
“I...” Love her? Mama must be addled. There was no possibility he could love a woman who made him want to leap from a cliff with such
regularity. But then, hadn’t he realized just that last night? That despite her propensity to push him toward insanity, he loved her?
“Mama, we shouldn’t push him. He’ll get there in time.” Sophie winked and tried to hide it from him, but did a poor job of the task.
“Enough!” Blast, now he was yelling at his mother and sister. “You said we needed a plan to convince her to come back. So, what will convince her?” This had better not take long. Devil take it, he still had to go to her, wherever she was, convince her to come back, and then get to the church so they could marry. And he still planned to do it all today. Why wait?
“She thinks you look at her as an obligation,” Sophie said.
“She is one of my responsibilities. She will be even more so once we marry.”
His sister frowned up at him. “Jane despises that. She wants to be able to take care of herself.”
Take care of herself? Countless ideas began to course through his mind about how she intended to go about such an endeavor. Yes, she’d been raised in the country, and not in an aristocratic family. But she would never have to work as his wife.
He could only pray that she had not resorted to the worst of his many ideas. Surely she wouldn’t.
Peter shook his head. “How am I supposed to use this to change her mind about anything, Sophie?”
“We need to convince her that she’ll still be able to take care of herself, even if she is married to you. And that you look at her as more than just something else to add to your list of duties.”
Sophie had likely filled Jane’s head with all sorts of madcap, Bluestocking ideas and the like. She couldn’t possibly have come up with her scheme on her own.
“If she is my wife, it is my responsibility to take care of her. To see that she never wants for anything.”
“But for Jane, that’s different than it is for most ladies bred to be part of the ton, Peter. She’s been quite patient since she arrived here to stay with us, accepting the fact that servants would now do for her things she feels perfectly capable of doing for herself. Why, I even convinced her to allow Meg to go with her, and I intended to hire her a butler, as well. This all goes against her nature.”
“Hire her a butler?” Good God, where had she gone? Peter shook his head. It didn’t matter. “So what am I supposed to do?” He feared he would never understand his sister’s rambling.
“You need to give her some responsibilities, as well. She needs to feel useful.” Sophie put her hands on her hips and gave him a curt nod.
“Such as?”
She sighed dramatically. “You expect me to do it all for you. I told you what she needs. You figure out the specifics.”
He scowled. “Fine. Now where is she?”
“Come with me. I’ll take you to her.” Sophie started out the door, then stopped to look over her shoulder. “Are you coming? And you should come as well, Mama. We might need you.”
For the first time, he thought his mother might be on to something. Perhaps Sophie should be married. Soon.
Then she could be some other sod’s problem, and no longer his.
Chapter Seventeen
“Stop the carriage here,” Sophie said.
The brief journey through Mayfair to Bond Street had commenced in silence. Peter had hardly been able to bring himself to look at either his mother or his sister the entire time, out of fear that he would once again berate them for this blasted secret code which he could not seem to break.
Once the driver pulled to a stop, Peter took a look around in dismay. Bond Street? This was no place for Jane to live. Yes, it was Mayfair. But these were shops, clubs, businesses. Not homes.
At least if she was here, however, she hadn’t resorted to selling herself. Perhaps she thought to use a skill. She might have asked for a position with one of the business owners on the street, he supposed.
Not that Peter had any sense of skills that Jane might have. Or did he? She’d mentioned sewing before. Was she planning to work for Miss Jenkins or one of the other modistes? He truly didn’t know her very well at all if he couldn’t even sort this out. He only knew that she ignited his lust faster than should be physically possible, while at the same time making him want to throttle her.
He climbed down once the steps were set out and then assisted Mama and Sophie in doing the same.
“Where?” was all he could manage without losing the tight rein of control he held over his temper.
Sophie pulled a scrap of parchment from her reticule. She scanned it for a moment before scouring the numbers on the buildings. “Here. This is the one. Number Fourteen.”
Number Fourteen was an empty shop, not an existing modiste shop like he’d expected. The uncovered windows revealed nothing inside but a couple of bare countertops and a handful of chairs. No sign that anyone was there at all.
“What in bloody hell does she think she’s doing here?”
A gentleman Peter vaguely recognized Lord Raynesford glared at him from across the street, where he was escorting two ladies. He really needed to regain his composure. Cursing in public in such a manner was inexcusable.
“Jane has let this building,” Sophie informed him. “For her business.”
“Her business?” It was worse than he had ever imagined. What could have possessed the minx to think she could possibly run a business on her own?
“Yes, her modiste shop. She plans to make gowns for the ladies of the beau monde. I believe she’ll be quite good at it.” Sophie gave him a curt nod, as though to further emphasize her point. “If one should ask me, that is.”
“Jane? The same Jane who came to London wearing tattered rags covered in stains? I hardly think fashionable ladies will rely on her for their fashion.” She was delusional. And his sister was almost as bad. Yes, she’d mentioned she could sew—but making gowns such as would be required by Society ladies seemed far beyond her area of expertise.
“Oh, she does lovely work, Peter,” his mother interjected. “She could do quite well for herself, judging from the gowns her mother showed me.”
Perfect. This just served as proof that a severe dearth of common sense had recently afflicted the women in his life. “And she’s living here, as well?” he asked. The thought of living in such a confined space caused him to shudder. While he certainly could make do in something smaller than Hardwicke House if necessary, this took the idea to an extreme.
“In the apartment just above,” Sophie said.
It was pointless to continue standing around in the street, discussing Jane’s intentions. Peter marched to the front door of the shop and tried the handle. It was locked. Thank God she at least had enough common sense for that.
But it would make his current endeavor all the more difficult.
Peter knocked loud enough that Jane should be able to hear him from above stairs and waited. And waited.
Then he waited some more.
“Do you think, perhaps, they didn’t hear you?” Mama asked.
Coming out of a stairwell near the back of the shop, a bright orange ball of fur started toward them, slinking along in an arabesque pattern over the floor, and pausing to sniff at random intervals. Mr. Cuddlesworth. Jane was definitely here.
Peter sighed. “Jane heard.” Grudgingly, he reached up and knocked again—louder and longer this time. “Open the door.” His voice, while not loud enough to carry down the street, should still carry far enough to be heard upstairs.
Then they all waited again, almost as long as they waited the first time.
Almost. Sophie interrupted his musing. “Perhaps you should try again, Peter. It seems Jane and Meg can’t hear. Maybe you should knock a bit louder.”
This time, he glared. And growled. “They can hear me perfectly well.” Jane was just willfully ignoring him. When she finally came down and opened the door to him—which had better happen soon—he promised himself to give her a good piece of his mind for keeping him waiting.
In the meanwhile, he pounded so hard upon the do
or that he thought it might break in, and he did not let up his pace. “Open the door, Jane! I guarantee you this noise will not stop until you let us in.”
His fury grew by the moment. Finally, Meg emerged from a stairwell and walked to the door—Peter watched her through the windows—but she stood there without opening the door. Mr. Cuddlesworth moved to pace his figure-eights between her legs.
“Miss Matthews requests that you kindly stop pounding on the door of her establishment, Your Grace.” The maid’s voice trembled, but she didn’t waver.
“You may inform Miss Matthews,” he said with more menace than he intended, “I’ll cease pounding when she deigns to speak with me.”
“Oh,” said Meg, with her eyes widening. “Well.” Then she picked up the cat and scurried away up the stairs.
He waited two minutes for Jane to appear, then resumed knocking on the door—still louder, this time. “I only want to speak with you, Jane.” Several passers-by stopped and stared. “You are causing me to create a spectacle on the street. Open the door.”
Several moments passed, with neither sight nor sound of either Jane or Meg. Peter prepared himself to deliver her a blistering set-down when she finally appeared. The minx needed to understand she couldn’t just leave without a word. She hadn’t even bothered to tell him to his face that she was calling off their engagement.
This was simply unacceptable. And the idea that she could start a business? Laughable, at best.
After close to a quarter of an hour of him beating on her door and calling up to her, Jane stormed down the stairs with Mr. Cuddlesworth following in her wake. She threw open the locks and pulled the door open, issuing him a scowl that would melt an iceberg. “I beg your pardon.”
“As well you should,” Peter drawled, “for having the audacity to call off our engagement without informing me of such a decision.”
He pushed past her and into the empty shop, taking her wrist firmly into his hand when she tried to push against him and block his progress. Mama, Sophie, and the cat followed him in. Mama closed the door behind them.
A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle Page 84
