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

by Cheryl Bolen

  “In the way in which maidens are measured, I was a maiden,” she said in a somber voice. “You do believe I had never lain with another man?”

  “God, Isadore, stop torturing me!” He pushed away from the chess table and went to the fire, turning his back on her as he faced it.

  She was stunned. The anguish in his voice matched the anguish in her heart. He does love me. As she sat there watching his powerful back outlined in firelight, she went from elation to the lowest low. While at first she'd wanted to fly into his arms and once again proclaim her love, now that she had pondered her hopeless situation she knew it would only hurt him more.

  She vowed to never hurt him again. She must allow him to heal.

  William was too honorable a man to live with a woman legally wed to another, and she was trapped in a union recognized as a marriage by the laws of England—but never by her. She would topple herself from the dome of St. Paul's before she would live with the vile Lord Finkel. Even if splattering herself was a terrible way to depart this earth.

  She finally rose and went to stand beside William. “I'm sorry, William. I shall limit our discussions to our mutual business—or to our quest for a means to bring the odious Lord Finkel to justice.”

  He did not meet her gaze but continued to stare into the flames, nodding. “Tomorrow's Thursday. Do you still want to go to Lord Finkel's?”

  “It's not a question of wanting. I wish there were another way, but this is our best chance. We'll go tomorrow night. Have you found a way to get us in?”

  He nodded. “No bribing necessary. Our family has our own what you might call a private army. I've enlisted their expertise, and one of them assures me he can get in any door or any window. Do you think you can sketch a floor plan for us?”

  “Certainly.”

  * * *

  When he and Isadore reached Lord Finkel's house the following night, the street was in almost total darkness. Four of his “soldiers” met him there, but they were so well trained he hadn't seen the men dressed in black until he disembarked from his carriage several houses away from Finkel's. They crept up to him without making a sound. “Lord Finkel's house is the one of white stone, the only one with two bow windows at the front,” Whitcombe said. “According to the diagram the lady drew for us, one of those windows is to the morning room and the other to the dining chamber.”

  Arnold, who had been standing behind the shorter Whitcombe, stepped forward. “Since you believe the library is the chamber most likely to conceal what you're looking for, I've taken the liberty of removing the glass from one of its windows.”

  Whitcombe smiled. “And Ellerby—being the smallest—has climbed in and gone around to open the front door for ye.”

  William had full confidence that Ellerby had been as quiet as a mouse. The Birmingham soldiers were said to be the best trained in the world.

  Nodding, William turned to Isadore. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  The two figures in black moved like felines toward the house with two bow windows. At his insistence, she had worn her old torn black cape. She followed him up the four steps to the front door. His hand settled on the knob, his heartbeat accelerating. What if it squeaked? What if they were greeted by armed men? He'd learned that Finkel's servants were not the run-of-the-mill domestic staff. They were cutthroats and felons and men who would not hesitate to kill a man for sixpence.

  William and Whitcombe had discussed the possibility of exposure. Whitcombe had one of his men hiding on the ground floor to protect William and Isadore. The knowledge that one of his men was lurking there lessened William's anxiety. He'd told that man his first concern was to protect Isadore. “I can take care of myself,” he'd said.

  The door did make a muffled squeak as he eased it open just enough to turn sideways and enter. The hallway was in darkness. He stood there for a moment, listening. When he was assured that no servant had been alerted to his presence, he beckoned Isadore to enter.

  Once she was in the house, she took charge. “Follow me,” she whispered.

  She walked to the end of the checkered corridor. He knew from her floor plan, she was going to the library. Ellerby had purposely left the library door open for them. One less potential squeak.

  When he reached the library, he slowly closed its door while she lit candles from the smoldering fire in the grate. They had to have light to conduct a search, especially a search for incriminating letters.

  “The desk drawers stay locked,” she whispered, “but I believe he keeps the key inside the Sevres urn on his mantel.” She moved to the chimneypiece and carefully lifted the piece of fine porcelain.

  He heard the scrape of metal against the urn as she withdrew the key.

  She moved to him and placed the key in his outstretched hand. Then, without being told what to do, she lifted a candle and held it above the middle drawer as he slid the key into the lock. The drawer held a ledger and several pieces of correspondence.

  He emptied the drawer's contents on top of the desk. She set down her candle, and they went to work opening each letter to gauge its relevance. The first one he opened was a tradesman's bill for servants' livery. He set it aside.

  The next was a short letter from a former school chum asking Finkel for a loan of twenty guineas. William put that aside also.

  “Any luck?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “Because he refused to have a secretary—likely because no decent man would ever stay here once he knew what measure of man his employer was—he has saddled himself with having to see to all the various bills from tradesmen. The greengrocer. The tailor. And many subscriptions.”

  They continued until they had looked at every scrap of paper in that drawer before William examined the ledger. It looked as if it had only been used for a week or two and held nothing of interest, and no large deposits of money had been notated.

  After searching through the middle drawer, he examined the contents of the top right, and she the top left. Nothing incriminating. There were a pair of pouches containing much more money than even a wealthy man like William was accustomed to having. Interesting for a man whose estate was in shambles when he inherited.

  It took no more than ten minutes for them to search the entire desk, and they did not find a single incriminating item.

  “I suppose now we should start on the books,” he said.

  She gazed at the two walls that featured books from the floor to the high ceiling. “There must be a few thousand books here. It could take a week.”

  “Not the way I propose we do it.”

  Her brow arched in query as she eyed him.

  “I feel no compulsion to leave the room as we found it.”

  Her face brightened. “I see. You mean for us to take a book at time and toss it to the floor after shaking it to see if anything falls out?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then I propose we get your Whitcombe and Arnold and all the fellows to help us. That will take no special skill. If they find loose papers, you and I can examine them.”

  “Excellent suggestion.”

  He merely walked to library window where Whitcombe had removed the pane and spoke to a man standing there. Within minutes, two of the men were in the library with them searching the books for letters or scraps of paper that might have been inserted into them.

  A minute into the search, he knew he'd exercised poor judgment. Thumping the books to the floor was entirely too noisy. He had to instruct the others to stop and to begin taking out and replacing each book one at a time. Thank God they had help. This was going to take a long while.

  The first twenty minutes were fruitless. Then Ellerby exclaimed in a husky whisper. “I've found something, guv’nah!”

  William hurried to meet Ellerby as he came off the ladder and handed him a single piece of paper. Moving the candle, William read the first line and crumbled the piece of paper. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. It was a copy of a Robert Herrick poem! He looked t
o the spine of the book it came from. It was a volume of Robert Herrick.

  Both men climbed back on their respective ladders. With four of them working quickly, they were able to examine every book in the library in one hour.

  And they found nothing.

  He sighed. Isadore sighed.

  “He's got to keep his valuables somewhere,” William said.

  “If only we knew where. Do you think he might have a locked box in his bedchamber?” she asked.

  “It's possible. But your floor plan didn't include the bedchambers.”

  She shook her head. “I know not where his chamber is, but I do know that no one other than servants lives here. We would likely have the whole bedchamber floor to ourselves.”

  William's gaze flicked to the case clock upon the mantel. It was nearly four. “We can't risk it. He could come at any time now. Perhaps another time.”

  She shook her head. “We'll never have the chance again after he discovers tonight's break-in. He's known to be a vicious master to his servants. He will deal with them harshly for allowing this to happen. Rest assured, it can never happen again.”

  If she weren't with him, William would not hesitate to climb upstairs to Finkel's bedchamber, but he couldn't risk Isadore's safety. He shook his head. “No. We leave now.”

  Her head bent as she solemnly nodded.

  * * *

  Early the next afternoon, Sophia sat morosely peering from her bedchamber window. An hour earlier she had watched as William's coach came around to collect him. Another day she would not see him. She wondered if he would dine at home that night. She was so pitiable. She lived for each moment in his presence.

  It was while she was contemplating her melancholy life that she watched a long cart pull up in front of William's house. It wasn't every day one saw postilions on horses pulling a cart. And these postilions were armed! Her gaze moved to the box where the coachman sat. He stepped down, then reached up to assist a lady. A well dressed lady who began to walk to William's door.

  Isadore!

  Chapter 16

  She had to get to the door before Fenton answered. Sophia quickly slid her feet into her slippers and raced from her bedchamber. Holding her skirts in her hand, she scurried down the stairs like one racing from fire. Fenton was slowly making his way across the marble entry hall. “Fenton! Allow me to get the door.”

  A puzzled look flashed across his face. “As you wish, miss.”

  She swept open the door, and there stood a well-dressed woman who appeared to be five or six years older than Sophia. Her hair was dark, her skin fair, and anyone who gazed upon her would find her beautiful.

  “You are Isadore,” Sophia stated.

  There was a defiant tilt to the woman’s head as she glared at the younger woman. “I wish to see Mr. William Birmingham and only Mr. Birmingham.”

  “I am privy to your dealings with Mr. Birmingham, who has authorized me to conclude your . . . transaction.”

  “If you know everything, then tell me the amount I am to receive from him.”

  “Eighty thousand.”

  The real Isadore cocked a brow, her eyes narrow. “You have it?”

  “I wouldn’t be dealing with you if I didn’t. Do you have the . . .” Sophia eyed the long cart.

  Isadore nodded. “It’s covered with a shell of red bricks. You may come and inspect.”

  Were they going to uncover a fortune in gold bullion right here in Grosvenor Square? How Sophia wished William were here to advise her. Where had he intended to take the gold? Even if she made the exchange, she couldn’t allow all that gold to just sit there unprotected.

  Isadore began to walk toward the cart. Sophia followed. When they reached it, Isadore lifted back a section of tarp to reveal neat rows of red brick. She lifted a single brick, and below it blocks of shiny gold sparkled in the sunlight. “Every layer beneath here is gold,” Isadore said in a low voice as smooth as the finest brandy. “See for yourself. Pick any brick.” She moved away.

  Sophia walked around the cart. On the other side she randomly selected a brick, removed it, and eyed the sparkling gold beneath. She pulled that one out, and there was another gold block beneath it.

  Satisfied, she circled the cart and came to stand beside the beautiful Isadore, thankful that William wasn’t here. There was something about Isadore that indicated she would be far more in her element around men. Was it the immodest scoop of her neckline? Or the sultry timbre of her voice? Whatever it was, Sophia would rather that William never be snared by the real Isadore.

  Though it should not matter since Sophia could never have him.

  It was then that she remembered Isadore was married. What husband would permit his wife to be involved in illegal schemes like this?

  “How do I know that you’re trustworthy?” Sophia asked. “I could give you the money, and after you left, discover the bottom of that wagon is nothing but red brick. Mr. Birmingham has never before dealt with you.”

  “Mr. Birmingham may not have ever met me before, but Mr. Birmingham trusts MacIver, and MacIver knows I am an honest woman in a dishonest profession.”

  Those words could describe William. An honest man in a dishonest profession.

  “I have fulfilled my part. Now I should like my compensation.”

  “I have the money in a large valise. You’ll not be able to carry it by yourself. Perhaps your coachman can lend a hand. He looks to be a burly fellow.’

  For the first time, a smile lifted Isadore’s perfect lips. “My coachman is a most handy man to have around.”

  What danger the woman must court! Would her muscular coachman and armed postillions be enough to guard so valuable a cargo? Sophia swallowed. How would a complete novice like herself protect this delivery until she could get it to William?

  She prayed he would come home soon. Very soon.

  “I have your money here if you two would like to follow me upstairs.”

  * * *

  After Isadore had left with her money, leaving the horseless cart behind, Sophia knew she had to do anything she could to summon William. He must have a plan for storing the gold. She sent for Thompson.

  He came to the sitting room off her bedchamber where she and her two sisters sat. “Pray, Thompson, it's imperative I get in touch with Mr. Birmingham immediately. Do you know where he may be?” Sophia asked.

  The tall servant stood there for a moment, staring at nothing as he tried to recall what his master had spoken of that morning. “I can't say that he told where he was going. If I were to guess, I would say he may have gone to the family's bank.”

  The bank? Did he need money? Perhaps he was getting the eighty thousand guineas with which to pay her brother. “And you know where this bank is?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Then you must go there at once and tell him I need him. It's urgent.”

  “Certainly, Madam.”

  Why had he called her madam? Just a short time ago Fenton had called her miss. William must confide in his valet. Just as Sophia always confided in Dottie. Did that mean William had bemoaned the fact the woman with whom he'd been intimate belonged to another?

  “And if he's not there,” Sophia said, “please use your knowledge of your master to help find him. I cannot stress to you enough how important it is that he come here as soon as possible.”

  “Very good, Mad . . ., er, Miss Door. I'll go there directly.”

  After he left, Maryann eyed her elder sister. “Have you considered that once Mr. Birmingham gets his gold, you won't be able to stay here any longer? And you say you won't go to Devere House. What - - -”

  Before she could finish speaking, Sophia burst into tears. Maryann moved so close Sophia could smell her light lavender scent. “Don't worry, dearest,” Maryann crooned. “We'll find you a place where the vile Lord Finkel won't find you.”

  Sophia wailed. “I don't want to leave William. Once he has the gold, I'll have lost my usefulness to him.” She thought of one way she woul
d like to have been useful to him, but William was too decent to make love to another man's wife. He truly was an honest man in a dishonest profession, or an honorable man in a dishonorable profession. She sniffed deeply. Twice. “I will never see him again.”

  “And that means I won't ever again get to see me Mr. Thompson, never again hold hands with Mr. Thompson.”

  Maryann's eyes rounded. “What are you talking about?” she asked Dottie.

  “Me and the valet have engaged in a flirtation. He's even kissed me.”

  “I've never known you to ever show an interest in a man before,” Maryann said. “And I've known you since the day I was born.”

  “That's because I ain't never met a man before who was as 'andsome or appealing as my dear Mr. Thompson.”

  “Then we must think of a way to allow you and my sister to continue on here.” Maryann switched her attention from Dottie to Sophia, who was attempting to pat away her tears. “Would it not be wonderful if Dottie and Mr. Thompson could . . . marry?”

  Dottie's eyes widened.

  Sophia's mouth gaped open. “I've never considered that. I cannot live without Dottie, and I daresay William feels the same about Thompson.”

  “So you need to marry William.”

  Sophia began to wail again.

  “Oh, dear me,” Maryann said. “I keep forgetting you're already married to that awful man. I suppose it would be too much to hope for his death? He's only in his thirties.”

  Maryann was voicing the same thoughts that Sophia herself had not been able to suppress. She had felt utterly guilty for wishing a fellow human being dead, but if someone deserved to die for his evil deeds, that man was Lord Finkel.

  A pity it was that the wretched man would probably outlive them all.

  And it was an even greater pity that she had ever married him.

  Now Maryann started to cry. “It's all my fault that you're so miserable. I've ruined your life, and now I'm breaking Dottie's heart, too.”

  Sophia morosely nodded. “You and I have both acted impetuously, and now we're both paying for it. I pray, pet, that you put your indiscretion behind you, that you not allow it to ruin your life. I pray that in the future you will think long and hard before ever doing something you could not disclose in a conversation with our mother.”