by Sophia Nash
His gleaming boot heels clicked against the parquet flooring as he cleared the carpeting and crossed to the door. He turned at the last moment. “How’s that arm healing, Michael?”
The earl straightened, “About as well as your self-esteem, if I had to hazard a guess. You always were a poor shot. You should’ve stuck to the whip.”
Elizabeth bit her lower lip at the tension in the chamber.
Rowland narrowed his eyes. “Seven minutes.” The footman shut the door behind Rowland.
Michael turned toward her and grasped her hands. Urgency was evident in his expression. “There are soldiers at every road or path leading out of London. This is the only way. Our friend the Duke of Beaufort has a grand equipage arranged for his wedding to Victoria and he has agreed to help you. Victoria is staying at Ellesmere House. On the way to the wedding, Sarah will attempt to slip unnoticed into Beaufort’s own carriage with Victoria while the others enter a myriad of carriages provided by Helston, Ellesmere, and me.”
A thousand images and questions formed in her mind, but she allowed Michael to finish.
“When you arrive at St. George’s, you and a disguised footman must meander toward the ducal carriage, where you alone must pop inside to join Sarah. That is the only dangerous moment. It is doubtful Pymm’s soldiers will dare to search Beaufort’s ducal coach as they leave London by way of the main north road. You and Sarah are to stay at Brynlow, my small manor hidden deep in Yorkshire, for now.”
“I—I don’t know what to say. I can never—”
“Elizabeth, never forget to whom you are speaking. I was in your position not so very long ago. We will find a way, never fear. Although I must admit that our friends, Helston and Ellesmere in particular, are concerned by your lack of proof.”
“They doubt me,” she said softly. “I do not blame them, I suppose.”
He ran his hand through his disheveled locks of brown hair. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but as you know, in the eyes of most Englishmen the general is a candidate for sainthood.”
She examined her chapped hands. “I know.”
Ill at ease, he changed the subject. “I’m so sorry you’ve been forced to endure Rowland’s unwilling, and probably most ungracious, protection.”
“No, that’s not really true.”
“You’re not hiding anything from me now, are you? Has he bothered you? There is at least one other female here, isn’t there?”
She nodded.
“Remember, I know him. He cannot be fully trusted.”
“No. I assure you, he’s done nothing to harm me—other than refusing to eat the meals I prepare.” When he looked at her with curiosity, she continued. “It was my way of repaying him for hiding me.”
“Elizabeth, take care…He was born in a rookery, raised by thieves and, uh, unfortunate females. He has the most unconscionable principles—if any scruples at all—especially if a purpose can be better served by using corrupt means.”
She had guessed as much. “But his language…aside from his rude oaths, of course…his inflection holds none of the signs of poverty.”
Michael stared hard at her. “You must have noticed he’s an expert chameleon—adopting, changing, to suit every need. He would be equally at home in a den of panderers or Prinny’s court. His talent for deception is unparalleled.”
“Would it be too forward to ask why he shot you? Was it when you retrieved Grace’s fortune?”
“Yes, but there was more to it. He was out to avenge the death of a relation.” The earl appeared vastly discomfited to say any more, and for a moment Elizabeth doubted he’d continue. “Few know his mother was a maid at Wallace Abbey. My father, at the age of fifteen—well before he assumed the title, got Rowland’s mother with child when she was but sixteen herself. My grandparents turned Maura Manning out without a penny. I don’t know how she survived in London without references, but I understood she had some seamstress work, and most likely had to…well—”
“I understand,” whispered Elizabeth.
The Earl of Wallace flushed. “Howard Manning was born after Rowland. He was the one I accidentally killed while I was trying to rescue a horse he was beating.” Michael’s hands squeezed hers. “The Mannings had only one good quality as far as I could see, Elizabeth. It was simple blood loyalty. And the day, a decade later, Rowland was forced to understand that Howard was not a relation deserving his fidelity, I think something died in him.”
“But what of the blood you share? Why did he not protect you?”
“He saw me as Howard painted me—as a sniveling young arsonist responsible for burning down Wallace Abbey. He saw me as a murderer and a coward in hiding.”
“I’m so glad you were able to learn it was Howard Manning who was responsible,” she murmured.
“Elizabeth, you must never forget that where I gained, Rowland lost. I took from him his only estimable quality…his ability to trust anyone. He truly is a man without a shred of a heart or any redeeming features, my dear. You know that, don’t you?”
“That’s not true. He has many good points.”
Michael raised one brow in a disconcerting fashion so similar to his half brother that it was comical. “Take care, Elizabeth. Do not conjure up something that is not there. When I apprenticed for him, there was always a trail of very rich, beautiful females”—he appeared vastly uncomfortable—“clamoring after him. God knows why.”
She bit her lips to keep from smiling. The two tall, extraordinarily handsome brothers had not the slightest notion—although, on second thought, Rowland Manning most likely knew exactly what he was about even if his more gentle-hearted, noble half brother did not.
He grasped her hands within his own. “Elizabeth, I may have forgiven him for all those years he persecuted me, but I chose to do so because all that went before led me to Grace. And I would willingly go through it again to find her. But none of that blinds me to the fact that my half brother is a black-hearted devil who cares for naught but himself.”
“He cares for his horses.”
Michael tilted his head and regarded her with grave doubt dripping from his tight expression. “Perhaps.”
“And I’m sure he has some sort of kindhearted bond with Mr. Lefroy, if you look past the bluster.”
“Oh, my dear”—he shook his head slowly—“don’t make that mistake.”
“But—”
“Elizabeth, know this. Despite all, I would protect him if it ever came to the point. He is my brother—my elder half brother—and I have everything that should be his if there was any right in this world. My young father loved Rowland’s mother. As a child, I sometimes used to hear my father calling for Maura late in the night from beyond his private chambers. I did not know until this past spring that Maura was Rowland’s mother’s name.”
“Oh…Michael. It’s all so wretched.”
“It is,” he said softly. “And I would not be surprised if there was more to the story. I’ve often wondered how Rowland survived in the rookery. The only thing I know is that he would be the last person on earth who would ever breathe a word about it to anyone.”
Few things in life piqued Rowland’s curiosity. It was to be expected. Curiosity was a luxury reserved for those who had time on their hands and money in their pockets.
And yet, for some inexplicable reason, for the first time ever, he left the running of the afternoon auction in Mr. Lefroy’s hands. It nearly killed him to do it. At least it was to be a small auction, as the whole of London seemed more interested in attending that bloody wedding of the Duke of Beaufort, better known as the Catch of the Century.
There was no reason for him to attend the nuptials. He’d been paid to provide a carriage for Elizabeth Ashburton. And he’d been paid to provide one ecstatic Joshua Gordon, delighted to be elevated from footman to dandyish false husband of the bewigged little liar who had lurked in his kitchen all yesterday with the newly hired cook. Rowland had avoided all of them like bearers of a plague.
B
ut while he had sat at his desk, groaning from the weight of bills and accounts, there had been that damn wedding invitation resting on the farthest corner, taunting him. The one the Dowager Duchess of Helston had sent via her own footman.
And so, when he found himself in front of St. George’s for the second time in ten days, he began to question if he was, indeed, losing his mind.
When he’d set out after Joshua Gordon and Elizabeth Ashburton, he’d had to restrain himself from looking for the unexceptional carriage in the mob surrounding the church. He’d come merely as a formality, he told himself, only to more firmly establish his ties to the respectable Quality; to lull and lure the most snobbish of the swells to his establishment versus that of his bloody rival, old Tatts.
There was not the tiniest part of him that admitted he might have come for another reason. That would merely beg for disaster.
Under the six great columns supporting the front pediment of St. George’s, a plethora of officers mingled with the beau monde out to impress one another with their silk, satin, lace, and feathers. The streets surrounding the church were clogged with carriages and people straining for the chance to witness the wedding even more fashionable than the one of the week prior.
He barked at his driver to stop at the outer circle of the crowd, and then descended to make his way on foot. His great height aided his efforts as he barged through the gawkers and other guests to make his way past the twin statues of the marble wolfhounds flanking the grand entrance. Rowland staked a place beside the Dowager Duchess of Helston, who stood with the wedding party in the front of the church.
“I knew you’d come,” the tiny lady whispered, a crazy grin decorating her wrinkled face. Her beady black eyes held a multitude of secrets. Out of all of the people he’d met via his half brother, she was the only one whose motives he could not fully decipher.
“Yes, well,” he drawled, “I respond well to money.”
“Pish. The guineas were for the carriage and well you know it. You did not have to put in a show here. Don’t you dare try to fool me, young man.”
He stared at her. No one had ever called him a young man. She really was the most confounding old bag of wind.
“May I introduce you to a friend of our family, Mr. Manning?” Without waiting for his response, she continued. “Sir, this is my dearest friend in the world, Mr. John Brown, lately of Scotland—very lately—almost too late if you were to ask me. Oh, I didn’t really mean to insinuate that you are late, John. It’s the Countess of Home who is…oh, botheration.” Ata stumbled to a halt.
Brown shook his head and sighed.
The dowager could not seem to hold her tongue. “Well, if you had chosen to stay at Helston House instead of being one of the house party at the Countess of Home’s ostentatious—”
“I told you I’m here conditionally, Ata,” Mr. Brown interrupted stiffly.
Rowland sighed. Would the tedious dramas never end?
“We don’t have time for any conditions, John,” the dowager whispered, her irritation flaring. “Oh, pish. Now I’ve muddled the introduction. May I present Mr. Manning to you, or are there conditions attached to that too?”
The short, older man had eyebrows as thick and ill tended as a hedgerow, but under them his searching eyes gleamed with shrewd intelligence. Brown bowed slightly and Rowland followed suit. The last time Rowland had seen the old goat had been the night Michael, Helston, Ellesmere, and old Mr. Brown had broken into his study in search of the Countess of Sheffield’s bribe payment. Yes, he had come to know the four gentlemen from Portman Square very well, indeed, when Rowland had shot Michael during the wee hours.
Ata raised her chin. “You are both to become the best of friends. I shall insist on it.”
Mr. Brown had the good sense to keep his mouth shut; only his overgrown brows expressed what he would have liked to say.
Rowland was not so reserved. “Enchanted, Mr. Brown,” he drawled.
“Likewise,” muttered the old Scot, with false cheer in his eyes and cold murder in his heart.
Ata tugged Rowland’s coat sleeve until he was forced to lean down while she whispered to Mr. Brown, “Mr. Manning is here to save Elizabeth if our brilliant plan fails in any way.”
“It’s unfortunate your age has muddled your mind, ma’am,” Rowland said darkly. “I came because you invited me.” He wondered if there was any way to deter the mad ravings of the old harridan.
“As I was saying, John, Mr. Manning is here to insure her safety. Not that I think for a moment that my plan could in any possible way fail. You see, I’ve no small amount of experience in setting up clandestine missions entailing much stealth…” The dowager’s face drained of color. “Oh dear.”
“What is it?” Mr. Brown asked quickly.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. It’s Sarah,” she whispered with much distress.
Rowland casually turned his head and spied the woman who had stood near Elizabeth Ashburton at the last wedding. Her face pale, her gaze trained on the floor, she walked toward them on the arm of a distinguished gentleman.
Rowland shielded the dowager from view. The old woman had not the faintest idea how to go on in these matters.
“John, something has gone awry. Sarah wasn’t to leave Beaufort’s carriage. She was to wait for—” she squeaked.
“Hush,” Rowland interrupted in a harsh whisper.
Mr. Brown glared at him.
“John, do something,” she begged. “Something terrible is about to happen. I feel it.”
“Lord Wymith is with her,” Brown smoothed over. “Give it a moment, Ata. He’s taking her to one of the enclosed pews on the far side.”
Rowland looked across the aisle only to encounter the hard stares of Helston and Ellesmere, who stood quietly behind the celebrated groom. Their wives sat in the pew behind them as one of them was obviously with child.
All at once the organ music swelled in celebration, and the massive space reverberated with sound.
With the talent of a youth spent in the shadows, Rowland searched the church for possible escape venues. And then he saw her.
The damned black wig was slightly askew—very slightly, but God bless her, Elizabeth Ashburton’s chin was high and she negotiated the crowd as confidently as a duchess on her way to the well-padded family pew. Only his damned footman might give them away, what with those rounded eyes of his bouncing around in their sockets.
Rowland slowly dipped toward the dowager duchess. “Delighted to inform your worst fears are confirmed, madam,” he purred. “And your dream of a heroic rescue? Soon to be dashed too.”
“Coward,” Mr. Brown replied softly with a huge false smile for the benefit of anyone watching.
The dowager’s eyes blazed with vexation. She abruptly brought her cane down on Rowland’s foot. “Don’t disappoint me, young man.”
In the aftermath, Rowland would blame it all on his fool of a footman, who took one look at the only person he knew in the church, Rowland, and made the mistake of leading Elizabeth to stand beside him. Elizabeth stood as still as a statue, her face resolute.
And then the whole bloody affair unfolded like a tawdry black comedy in Drury Lane.
The auburn-haired bride, drenched to the dregs in lace, appeared at the great doors. Uniformly every last chit sighed in rapture as if a bloody miracle were in the making. Or perhaps they sighed over his sodding half brother Michael, who proffered his arm to the bride for support down the aisle.
As Miss Victoria Givan approached her ducal fiancé, the final notes of the music echoed from the high, arched ceiling. The archbishop, presiding over the regal wedding, began the ceremony, his booming voice casting a spell on the elegant crowd.
Moments later a royal entourage encompassing courtly blokes as well as a dozen soldiers and officers spewed through the rear of the church. They stopped short of advancing farther than the last pews.
Rowland dared to look at Elizabeth again, only to find her profile as beautiful and even
as he remembered. Never had he seen a woman’s face so full of resignation and unwavering courage. Her expression eschewed pity; instead it embraced some sort of hopeless fortitude. She turned her face slightly to acknowledge him. For one brief instant, her glacial mask slipped out of place, and he unwillingly spied the deep recesses of her soul.
A searing blaze of pain burned through the frost encrusting his heart and he tasted bitter fear.
And yet, there was not a single supplication in her expression. Indeed, where there might have been expectation, there was naught but self-reliance. For some curious reason, it moved a tiny particle near his cold heart.
And then, just like a curious case of déjà vu, a murmur passed through the guests, and Rowland’s attention was drawn back to the entrance, where General Pymm stood, just as he had a mere week ago, resplendent in his perpetual formal dress. The general, second only to the newly anointed Duke of Wellington, had a way of standing as if he were posing for a sculptor’s benefit. Wellington himself appeared moments later only to open wide the door for the bulky form of the Prince Regent to sally forth.
The archbishop was the only one unimpressed with the newest guests, and he continued on, oblivious to the condescension bestowed on the bridal couple and the fervor of royal servants attending to the imperial party.
Rowland glanced at Elizabeth and noticed a tiny vein near her temple beating erratically. His gut clenched. He had the nearly overwhelming albeit ridiculous desire to do something to ease her tension. He sighed, annoyed almost past the point of tolerance.
But really, what did he have to lose? It was not as if anyone would expect decorum from him. If distraction was called for, he could easily provide it with very little loss to himself. He refused to acknowledge that it could very well harm the tender shoots of the more cultivated image he had sought by coming to this damned wedding.
Christ, what had she done?
Well, then. When and if the soldiers attempted to close the gap toward her, he would do something so outrageous that all attention would be drawn to him. Surely a few blasphemes in church would not further mar his already eternally damned soul.
