Oh What A (Wedding) Night (Brazen Brides #3)

by Cheryl Bolen

  “If he ever comes home.” How could his blasted meeting take so wretchedly long?

  Even after night came, she continued to sit at her window and peer out over Grosvenor Square. No sign of a woman who might be Isadore. No sign of William.

  Something was wrong. This morning had been the happiest of her life. As evening set in, she was steeped in melancholy.

  Chapter 8

  No less than three men in Lord Finkel's employ lingered discreetly along the block of stately homes that lined Curzon Street. One, a strapping lad of eighteen dressed in oilskins to repel the rain, appeared to be directing his full attention to his horse that had supposedly come up lame. Another, swathed in a greatcoat that was much too small for his considerable height, stood on the corner hawking hot chestnuts. The last of Finkel's employees eagerly watched conveyances speed past at the opposite corner, appearing to be waiting for someone. Which, indeed, he was.

  All three were in possession of weapons which they would not hesitate to use in order to restore Lady Finkel to her husband. If that she-devil he'd wed even tried to seek refuge with her brother, Lord Finkel's men would immediately accost her.

  Such knowledge should gratify said lord. But it did not.

  Three nights had now passed since his ill-fated wedding night, and still he had not the slightest inkling of where that damned bride of his had fled. If his servants were to be believed, the witch had run off with a well-to-do giant of a man. What pleasure it would give Lord Finkel to have that wife stealer beaten to a pulp. Lord Finkel never had to resort to violence himself—not when he possessed legions of servants who did not object to undertaking his often illegal schemes.

  Eyeing Devere's house from inside his coach, he drew a breath of impatience. How could plans he had painstakingly laid over the course of two years have gone so badly awry? Since he'd first set eyes on Lady Sophia at Almack's, he'd been driven by a desire to possess her by whatever means it would take.

  This was the third day he'd come to Devere House to inquire about his wife's whereabouts. From her brother's shocked expression that first day, Finkel believed Lord Devere had no knowledge of his sister's flight.

  The Finkel coachman opened his door and held an umbrella over the opening as his master disembarked. Lord Finkel took the umbrella in his own hands, strode to the glossy front door of Devere House, and rapped. A moment later, an elderly butler opened the door.

  Though Finkel was accustomed to having his coachman announce him, today he wished to gauge the Devere servant's reaction. “Lord Finkel to see Lord Devere.”

  There was no change in the expression on the butler's face. “Lord Devere is not in.”

  Finkel shoved a shoe into the doorway. “Then I beg to wait within.”

  Now the butler's carefully controlled features crashed for a fraction of a second before he recovered. “Of course, my lord. I will show you to his lordship's library.”

  They strolled along the checkered marble entry hall where the walls were covered with portraits of long-dead Deveres stacked up the stairwell one on top of the other. When the two men reached the asparagus green library at the rear of the ground floor, the butler spoke in a feeble voice. “I cannot say when Lord Devere will return, my lord. It's possible that he may be gone all day.”

  Finkel passed a writing table and went to stand in front of the fire. “I understand.”

  As the butler went to leave the chamber, Finkel casually asked, “By the way, have you seen Lady Sophia?”

  The servant's white head shook. “Not since the day she wed, my lord. She's greatly missed. Mrs. Blackpool—that would be our housekeeper—says it's as if the house is weeping for Lady Sophia. It's been so solemn and quiet since she left.”

  As soon as the door to the library closed, Finkel raced back to the writing table. When walking by it, he'd caught a glimpse of a letter written in Lady Sophia's hand. He snatched it from the top of the day's post. It was addressed to her brother.

  He tore it open and began to read, but one phrase leapt off the page and struck terror in his heart: damning information about Lord Finkel. His pulse hammering and his curses lashing, he scanned the rest of the letter, then hurled it into the fire.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he looked at the second sheet of paper—a list. It sickened him. Someone had managed to enumerate several of his blackmail schemes. There was Lady Audley's affair with her banker. There was the matter of card cheating instigated by Lord Smithington at White's, and a land swindle by Sir Percy Yarborough.

  Who could possibly have known that he used his knowledge of these potentially damning scandals to increase his own wealth? He turned the next page over. Several more potential scandals he'd averted—for a price—were listed.

  He would be ruined if this information was ever released. It was imperative that he find the author of this list.

  He wished he hadn't thrown the bitch's note into the fire. Hadn't she mentioned a Mr. Birmingham? She'd written for her brother to come to her, but not if Mr. Birmingham were home. That must mean she was staying with Birmingham. He had to be the wealthy giant she'd run off with.

  There was a sudden lurch in his gut. There lived in the capital an extremely wealthy man named Birmingham, Nicholas Birmingham. And he was considerably taller than average. The stockbroker was said to be the wealthiest man in England.

  Lord Finkel's resources could never compete with those of the Birminghams.

  Had Nicholas Birmingham not married Lady Fiona Hollingsworth the previous year? Why would he be aiding Lady Sophia?

  Lord Finkel had to find out if the stockbroker was the man with whom Lady Finkel had run off. Most important of all, he must uncover the identity of the man who'd been stalking him.

  That man must die.

  * * *

  Sophia spent the better part of the day wiping the windows in her bedchamber so she could see if the real Isadore came to Grosvenor Square. She was obliged to put on her thick velvet cloak because the frigid air seemed to be pouring into her chamber from the slender casement. The freezing glass also necessitated that she don kid gloves.

  She could not recall ever being so bored. She could paint from memory each house on the north side of Grosvenor Square. She had learned the corresponding number to each one of the homes. She'd memorized the distinctive friezes of every mansion on Grosvenor Square. She knew the first house on the north corner was stuccoed in cream, the second of Portland stone

  If even one nurse with her charge had entered the park in the center of the square, it would have relieved Sophia's boredom, but on so rainy a day, she had not even that small diversion.

  Not for a single moment the entire day did the relentless rain let up. Fortunately, Dottie and her protector suffered no ill effects from their visit to Curzon Street. Upon her servant's return, Sophia had ordered her to change into dry clothes.

  The only bright spot in Sophia's dreary day occurred after Dottie had donned a fresh dress and flew into her mistress's chamber, bursting with excitement.

  A smile tweaking at her lips, her eyes narrowed in mock consternation, Sophia addressed her maid. “I perceive that Thompson was receptive to your affections.”

  In her gleeful state, the slender Dottie could almost appear pretty. Though every one of her forty years was etched into her angular face, the sprinkle of freckles upon her nose and the coppery tresses unspoiled by gray lent a more youthful aspect to her countenance. Her green eyes shimmered with childish delight. “Oh, yes, milady!”

  “Did you trace slow, sensuous circles upon his arm?”

  Unable to suppress her grin, Dottie's head bobbed in the affirmative.

  “Did he do anything or say anything?”

  “Not at first. At first he was all silent, but after a while—when he could see that I was intentionally sending a nonverbal signal—something in him seemed to change. He didn't say nothin' but it was as if his step was lighter, and a smile fixed upon his face.”

  “I can't recall ever seeing the man smi
le.”

  “Me neither. That was his nonverbal way of telling me how pleased he was by my actions.”

  “He never said anything to you about your . . . your actions?”

  Dottie shook her head.

  “Did he by chance attempt to give you any nonverbal signals?”

  “Indeed he did.” Had Dottie just received a proposal from a prince she could not have appeared any happier.

  Sophia cocked her head. “Are you going to tell me about it?”

  Dottie sighed. “It made me so happy, I love recalling it. I thought me heart would burst.”

  “Out with it.”

  “He put his hand over mine and clasped it like for quite a long period of time. He's so big his hand's twice the size of mine. Then when we reached the door at Devere House, he put his arm around me, just as if we was 'usband and wife. I ain't never felt so good before. I felt like he was my very own protector. I felt . . . I felt like I 'aven't felt since I was rocked in me mama's arms a great long time ago.”

  Sophia's heart softened. “You felt cherished.”

  Dottie nodded. “That's the very word I was looking for! You know, there's a lot to be said for nonverbal communication.”

  Sophia thought of all the silent ways she had shown William how much he meant to her. “Indeed there is.”

  “So, milady, do you have any more advice on what I'm to do next to send Mr. Thompson an affectionate nonverbal message?”

  Sophia considered the request for a moment. She'd never been a quick thinker. She pondered how she would convey her affection to William in a nonverbal way, and an idea suddenly leapt to her mind. “When you're riding in a carriage together, you could set a hand upon his thigh.”

  Dottie's eyes rounded. “And make those slow, sultry circles on his leg, you mean?”

  Sophia nodded. “It would be very provocative.”

  “Just thinkin' about it steals me breath away!”

  That conversation with Dottie had taken place hours ago.

  Still, William had not returned. Where had he gone? Had he taken a warm coat? Had he managed to protect himself from the chilled rain? The rumble of distant thunder made her even more morose. Had something happened to her beloved? Had he no regard for his good health? Riding in this abominable weather could send him to bed with fever—or even worse.

  Sophia's thoughts continued to flit to his proposal that first morning at Grosvenor Square. How could something that made her so happy then now meld into something so melancholy? Had she merely dreamed that William wanted to marry her? She'd held a deep conviction in his sincerity. Now, her trust in him wavered. Had he truly felt they belonged together, he would not have stayed away all day. Would he not wish to be with her as acutely as she longed to be with him?

  The day grew darker and darker. Neither her brother nor her lover came. Her melancholy magnified. She was certain something was wrong. She feared that something threatened William. Whatever had happened, she instinctively knew, would destroy the bliss she'd known that morning, would sever that bond that forged them together as if they'd shared a single heartbeat.

  Dottie came and tried to persuade her to eat, but Sophia refused. The anxiety that seeped through her like the most potent brandy had unsettled her stomach.

  Night fell early this time of the year. By four o'clock the already dark skies had become completely black, save for the lanterns flanking the doorways across the square. Just as her aunt's footman was lighting the lamps at Number 12, a lone horseman rode into the square. She would know him amidst a thousand riders. Even covered by a voluminous woolen greatcoat and a hat smashed on his golden locks, he could not conceal those exceptionally broad shoulders or those powerful thighs straddling the beast. He sat a horse as he did everything—emanating a sense of command. He was the kind of man one would turn to in a crisis. As, indeed, she had.

  As his mount trotted up to his narrow house, she recalled how masterfully he had dispatched Finkie's violent henchmen, and her heart swelled. She pictured him handily overpowering two men as one would squash an insect.

  William was her fate. She believed he must have been put on this earth to share her life, to be her protector, her lover. He was meant to save her from the vile Lord Finkel. No other man but William would ever do.

  As a footman raced from the house to take William's horse, she leapt from her settee and hurried from her room, her heartbeat scurrying at the prospect of beholding this man who had come to mean so much to her. She flew down the stairs, and when she neared the entry hall, she halted and watched as he handed off his sodden coat to the butler. His breeches were soaked as if they'd been immersed in a lake.

  As she drew closer, she saw that the normally tanned skin of his face had turned a ruddy red from exposure, and he shivered. She watched as he peeled off wet leather gloves. His icy fingers were numb.

  The contrast between the way he looked when he'd left that morning and the way he looked now caused her heartbeat to skid. He looked as if he'd been caught in a cyclone. It wasn't just the obvious exposure to raw elements that accounted for his bedraggled appearance. It was as if the confidence that had defined him had been torn away.

  She moved to him, her brows lowered. “I've been worried about you all day, and now it seems my fears were warranted. Why did you expose yourself to such beastly weather? You'll take a lung infection.” She wanted to be held in his arms, but she knew he would never allow such a display in front of his servants. Instead, she went to slip her arm into his, but he stiffed and elbowed her away.

  His coolness stung. “I beg that you come up and sit before the fire in my chamber,” she said in a gentle voice. “You must be chilled to the marrow.”

  “I thank you, but I have duties which require my attention.” He began to climb the stairs. “Fenton, I shall need a hot bath immediately.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Birmingham.”

  Her pulse skittered at the thought of those powerful golden limbs of his sliding into the bath. She pictured the way his bare body had looked in firelight, her breath catching in her chest. How she longed to be the one to trickle warm water over the body that had given her such pleasure the previous night. She could not allow herself to dwell on lathering soap over his barreled chest or to imagine her fingers combing through his hair—not when an obvious change of heart had come over him.

  As she silently followed him up the stairs, she felt like a mongrel who'd just been kicked by its master. What have I done? Why his sudden iciness?

  As upset as she was over his stiffness to her, she was just as worried about his well-being. Had he been riding in the rain all this chilly winter day? Her mind raced to her acquaintances who had succumbed to consumption before their twenty-fifth birthdays.

  When he reached the second floor and started for his bedchamber, she spoke. “You must drink some hot tea, dress warmly, and cover yourself with blankets.”

  He stopped and slowly turned toward her, a frosty expression on his handsome face. “Save your regard for your husband.”

  Chapter 9

  Even though it was but four o’clock, it was almost completely dark by the time Lord Finkel reached Nicholas Birmingham’s establishment on Threadneedle Street. It was a wicked day to be out in the elements. Curse that wench he’d married! When the coachman went to open the door, the wind whipped it from his hand. Cursing under his breath, Finkel snatched the umbrella away from his well-meaning servant. Even with an umbrella, he was in for a thorough drenching. And it was beastly cold.

  The old red brick building in which Nicholas Birmingham conducted his business—when he wasn’t at the Exchange—did not look like the establishment of one who was said to be the richest man in the kingdom. The interior with its plain utilitarianism was even more shocking. No Turkey carpets on the cold stone floor, and one solitary writing table behind which sat a youthful, bespectacled clerk.

  “May I help you?” the fellow asked.

  “Lord Finkel to see Mr. Birmingham.”

  �
�You are expected?”

  “No, but it’s imperative that I speak to him.”

  “Perhaps there's something I can assist you with. All orders for Mr. Birmingham come though me.”

  Lord Finkel glared. “The matter I wish to discuss with Mr. Birmingham is of a personal nature.”

  The young man rose. “Very well. I’ll go see if he has a few minutes to spare.”

  Finkel had never before met the rich stockbroker, never spoken with him, but he had seen him and his beautiful wife—the former Lady Fiona Hollingsworth, an earl’s daughter—at Almack’s.

  A moment later, the clerk came from his employer’s office. “You may go in, my lord.”

  Birmingham stood when Finkel entered. Even though Finkel had been prepared to be condescending to the Cit, he was unaccountably taken aback. In this man’s presence, Finkel felt small, even inadequate. Nicholas Birmingham was said to be the most handsome man in London. Finkel could well believe it. The man was probably six foot three, with broad shoulders and lanky frame. There was nothing objectionable in his face. In fact, the man had been blessed to be born with excellent, very white teeth and an aquiline nose. His colouring was dark, with deep brown hair, black eyes and dark complexion like those from Mediterranean countries.

  “How can I be of assistance to you, my lord?” Birmingham asked. Though his words were polite, the tone of his voice was stiff to the point of being disparaging.

  “I won’t beat around the bush. I’ve come to fetch my wife.”

  A puzzled look crossed the taller man’s face. “I beg your pardon? I know nothing of your wife.”

  Finkel had suspected that Nicholas Birmingham would be a fool to be unfaithful to his beautiful Lady Fiona. The woman was perfection. Then suddenly he remembered there was another Birmingham brother. “Then it must be your brother who runs the Birmingham family bank.”

  “If you think my brother Adam has run off with your wife, I assure you that you’re delusional. I see my brother every day, and I am certain you are mistaken.”