by Brenda Hiatt
"Certainly I cannot hold you to our betrothal under the circumstances, Miss Beauforth. You may consider it at an end. And now, I really must be going." He nodded to both ladies and strode quickly from the room.
"He took it remarkably well," Marilyn commented after he had gone. "Doubtless he wished to leave before he could betray what he truly felt. Men do not care to express their sorrow publicly, I have noted."
Lady Beauforth finally found her voice. "My love, do you realize what you have just done?" she wailed. "You would have been a countess!"
"I have discovered that there is more to life than being a countess, Mother," replied Marilyn loftily. "I do feel badly for poor Glaedon, though. And after he came directly to see me first thing on returning to Town."
"Actually, my dear, I believe he came to speak to Azalea," returned Lady Beauforth somewhat distractedly, trying to sort out everything that had just occurred.
"Indeed?" asked Marilyn in surprise. "I thought... Oh, well, no matter. What do you think of this dress, Mother? Jonathan —er, Mr. Plummer —is due back from his grandfather's estates tomorrow, and I thought I would wear this when he comes to call." She pirouetted for her mother's evaluation.
"What? Oh, very nice, my love," said Lady Beauforth, scarcely looking at her. Oddly, she discovered that Marilyn's broken betrothal did not upset her as much as the thought of Azalea's possible danger. What could Lord Glaedon possibly do for her? And would he be in time?
* * *
Azalea raised herself on one elbow and shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her brain. How much time had passed since her uncle had imprisoned her in this sumptuous bedroom?
She clearly remembered arriving at Kayce's Town house, and that she had tried to leave after he informed her that she was to be his "guest" until the wedding. Two footmen —a fancy name, she thought, for hired thugs —had blocked the front door, while Kayce told her she had a choice between being carried to her chamber and being escorted to it. She had chosen the latter only because open resistance would obviously do her no good, whereas a show of submission might.
Bit by bit, she pieced together what had occurred afterward. First, there had been hours of solitude, broken only by the delivery of a meal tray at noon, and another shortly after dark. That had given her ample time for thought, and for regret.
She had believed that the surest way to avert her uncle's plan was to inform him of her marriage to the Earl of Glaedon, much as she would have preferred to tell Christian first. But the very fact that he had imprisoned her implied that Kayce must already know of it, and must know also that she no longer possessed any proofs. By coming here instead of going to Christian, she had unwittingly played right into her uncle's hands.
As long as he held her prisoner, she could have no opportunity to convince Christian or anyone else of the truth, so that they might come to her aid in preventing a lawless union with Drowling. Which meant her only recourse was escape.
Accordingly, that night, after all was quiet in the house, she had climbed down the tree outside her second-storey window. She remembered bolstering her courage by thinking how she would love to see her uncle's face when he received her note from Lady Beauforth's in the morning.
But alas, her ambitious scheme had come to naught. Kayce had evidently been suspicious of his niece's uncharacteristic compliance and had posted a guard in the garden below her window. The man had seized her before her feet touched the ground and dragged her ignominiously back into the house through a rear entrance.
When called to the scene, Kayce had chuckled at her obvious chagrin and had ordered her taken back to her chamber and the window to be locked, in addition to posting an additional guard outside her door.
The next morning he had allowed her to descend and join him at breakfast. He had conversed on general topics as though absolutely nothing were amiss, while Azalea remained stubbornly silent, refusing to play along with his dreadful charade. Her uncle had completely ignored the glares she sent his way, and she had finally decided to devote herself to the excellent breakfast set before her with the rationale that if she were ever to make good her escape from this monster, she would need her strength.
That, apparently, had been a mistake.
She realized now that something in glass or plate must have contained a drug, for it was at that point that her memory failed. All she could recall after that were hazy images of being carried back to her bed, of being fed and ministered to at intervals by a large, grey-haired woman with a deep voice, and of disjointed sentences being spoken over her by Kayce and this woman, who was presumably some sort of nurse. Now she tried to organize her confused thoughts, to remember anything that they had said, feeling vaguely that it might be important —but she could not.
At that moment, Azalea heard voices outside her chamber door and the rattle of a key in the lock. Hoping to discover something of use, she closed her eyes to feign sleep. She heard two sets of footsteps enter the room, one heavier than the other, and then detected a glow against her closed eyelids. Presumably, the bedside lamp had been lit.
"Still sleeping, my lord," said the deep female voice she remembered. "Shall I give her another dose to be safe?" Before Azalea could begin to plan some way to avoid swallowing the drug, Kayce's voice responded.
"No, I think not. We can hardly have an unconscious bride, after all. Check in on her periodically, and when she begins to stir, give her just enough to keep her quiet without putting her back to sleep. I have paid the clergyman well, but he still might balk if she were to protest too violently during the ceremony. We certainly don't want any repetitions of those claims to a previous marriage she was ranting about earlier, even if they were mere fancies brought on by the drug. Report to me when she wakes."
"Yes, my lord," replied the woman, and Kayce's footfalls receded.
Azalea forced herself to remain limp as the big woman turned her body from side to side, washing her and changing the cotton shift she wore.
She had told her uncle of her marriage? She had no recollection of it. Had she mentioned Lord Glaedon by name? Had her uncle perhaps not obtained the marriage proofs, as she had feared? Or was he merely hiding that fact from this servant? She had no way of knowing.
The woman completed her ministrations and left, and Azalea cautiously opened her eyes again. The door and window were no doubt still locked, nor was she at all certain that she could walk yet, in any event. Experimentally, she tried to sit up in bed, and the room rocked crazily about her. No, even standing would be impossible for the present. She would try again later. In the meantime, she could at least think through her situation.
Why had Lady Beauforth not come to enquire about her? Of course, she very well might have, Azalea realized, and been fobbed off by some story of Kayce's. She would have to assume that there would be no help from that quarter. Lady Beauforth had always been strongly in favour of a match with Drowling anyway, and would hardly work to prevent it.
What about Marilyn then, or, better yet, Jonathan? She was positive that he would help her if she could somehow get word to him. But he would know no more of her situation than the Beauforths did—he might not even be in Town. Hadn't he been about to leave for his grandfather's estates the last time he called? Who else might possibly help her?
Involuntarily, her thoughts turned to Christian. If only she had gone to him and explained everything before coming here! He had called himself her friend, and had implied much, much more. And somehow Azalea knew that he would have no trouble dealing with Kayce and Drowling if he chose to do so.
But such fantasies were pointless. By now he would think that she had entered into a betrothal with Drowling willingly, since that was doubtless what Lady Beauforth would tell people. Even if she were somehow to escape, could she really bring herself to go to him and tell him that she was his wife, as she had once thought to do? Undoubtedly he would laugh and shut the door in her face.
No, she would return to America, she decided. Even if her uncle so
mehow forced her to go through with this wedding —which would not be a true one, she consoled herself —they could hardly keep her under guard for the rest of her life. Somehow, someday —very soon —she would escape and make her way back, if not to Williamsburg, then at least to the New World, where no one would know of her humiliation here in England. If she could not have Christian's love, then she would take the secret of their marriage with her to the grave.
And that was another option, she suddenly realized. While her conscience recoiled at the sinful idea of suicide, a practical voice somewhere in her still-fuzzy mind told her that it would be infinitely preferable to a marriage with Drowling.
Thrusting that thought hastily aside, to be considered again only if no other solution presented itself, Azalea forced herself to prepare arguments that would convince any clergyman —even a well-paid clergyman —that this wedding ceremony could not possibly take place.
By the time she again heard footsteps, she had composed a speech, to be delivered at the altar, if necessary, that she was nearly certain would free her, at least temporarily. She again pretended sleep, hoping to avoid another dose of whatever she had been given. Only if she were fully in control of her faculties would she be able to convince the clergyman not to perform the ceremony.
So far, her ruse appeared successful. The woman merely looked closely at Azalea and shook her gently by the shoulder before leaving the room.
It might have been two hours later when the door reopened. By now, Azalea had managed a brief walk about the room and was fairly certain that she had shaken off most of the effects of the drug. As before, she appeared to be sound asleep when her uncle and his henchwoman entered.
"Time grows short," said Kayce impatiently. "Surely she should be awake by now?"
"Aye, she should, my lord," replied the woman. "Mayhap we gave her a bit too much last time. She's smaller than anyone I've dosed before."
"Well, let's sit her up and see if we can bring her to. If possible, I'd like to have some conversation with her before the wedding."
Curiosity almost caused Azalea to open her eyes. What could Kayce wish to speak to her about? Should she try to convince him one last time, or would it be safer to pretend to be drugged until she could talk to the clergyman?
The beefy arm of her erstwhile nurse raised her into a sitting position while Kayce's footsteps receded across the room, then returned. Before Azalea could decide how to react, the decision was made for her— cold water was unexpectedly flung in her face.
She gasped and sputtered from the shock of it, her eyes flying open in astonishment.
"There!" said Kayce in evident satisfaction. "That was easy enough. Now, my dear, as soon as you have your wits about you, we must have a talk."
Azalea glared at him, forgetting in her anger that she should pretend to be still under the influence of the drug. "May I have a robe first?" she asked icily, glancing down at her wet cotton shift, which clung to her body in a most immodest manner.
Kayce nodded to the nurse, who brought Azalea's own velvet wrapper, apparently transported from Lady Beauforth's during her long sleep. Pulling it closely about her, she looked defiantly at her uncle.
"Well?" She knew she should try to placate Kayce somewhat if she were to talk him out of his plans, but she was simply too angry at the moment to care. "What do you need to say that necessitated waking me in such a manner?"
"You seem to be in complete possession of your senses," said Kayce, with a significant glance at the nurse. "Perhaps now you will tell me what your ravings about a previous marriage signified."
So he did not have the marriage papers! Azalea felt a surge of relief and triumph, suddenly seeing an easy way out of her predicament.
"I had intended to inform you of it, dear Uncle, had you but given me a chance," she said with false sweetness. "I did, if you recall, tell you that a marriage with Lord Drowling was impossible, but you did not believe me."
Kayce's eyes narrowed. "And who is this alleged husband? Some American commoner whom you abandoned to seek your fortune —or rather, my fortune —in England? Is he here to step forward and claim you?" Disbelief showed openly in his face.
"Hardly that, Uncle," retorted Azalea, stung. "Lord Glaedon is no commoner, nor is he in America. And he will be here to claim me—in time to stop this ridiculous marriage you want so badly." She knew this last was a lie, but prayed that Kayce would believe it.
He did not.
"Yes, I knew about your partiality for Glaedon —your meetings in the Park have been reported to me. But my sources also tell me that he is presently in the country with his dear grandmama." Kayce's features twisted with dislike as he mentioned the dowager Countess.
"A pretty story, my dear, but most improbable. I fail to see why either of you should have desired a secret wedding. Where are the marriage papers? Why was there no announcement? And what of the small matter of his betrothal to your cousin, Miss Beauforth?"
Azalea's sudden confidence began to crumble. Without any proof, her story of a wedding in Williamsburg when she was but thirteen sounded absurd even to herself. The only person in England who could corroborate her tale was Mr. Timmons, and as far as she knew he was still bedridden.
At her silence, Kayce smiled unpleasantly. "I thought as much. No, my dear, it will take more than such a fable to change my plans. And I warn you— one word of this during the ceremony and I might have to arrange an unpleasant, ah, accident for young Glaedon."
He smiled as Azalea's eyes widened in horror. "I shall return for you shortly. Mrs. Melkin," he said, turning toward the nurse, "help her to dress."
The wedding gown Mrs. Melkin held up was beautiful, but did not serve to distract her a whit. Somehow, she must get out of this!
Since there was obviously no chance of overpowering the massive nurse, Azalea allowed herself to be fastened into the exquisite dress without a word, hoping that some opportunity for escape would present itself after she left the bedchamber.
True to his word, Kayce returned in less than an hour to escort her downstairs to a large room at the rear of the house —the dining-room, she realized, with the table removed and the chairs placed along one wall. Drowling was there, along with the skinny butler and a man she assumed was the clergyman. If anything, he appeared even less sympathetic than the others, she thought despairingly.
Drowling turned to smile at her, but there was more lust than affection in his glance. His look made her skin crawl, and Azalea suppressed a shudder, knowing that he would show no more pity than her uncle.
As if in a nightmare, she allowed Kayce to guide her to her place at Drowling's side.
Now? Should she deliver that carefully prepared speech? But what of Kayce's threat? Azalea had no doubt whatsoever that he was capable of carrying it out. She could not risk Christian's safety, or possibly his life, even to stop this travesty of a wedding.
Oh, Chris, where are you now? she moaned silently to herself.
* * *
After driving at a reckless pace through the dark London streets, Christian finally drew to a halt a few doors from Lord Kayce's Town house. He did not wish to call attention to his presence just yet. For the sake of Azalea's safety, he thought it might be wiser to discover all that he could before pounding down Kayce's front door.
Proceeding on foot, he went around to the rear of the house to check the stables, hoping to gain some useful information there. Sure enough, drawn up outside them was a handsome travelling carriage with a crest on the side that he recognized as Lord Drowling's. Here to visit his reluctant bride, was he?
Though not well-acquainted with the man, Christian had developed a dislike for Drowling after an occasion several months before when he had found him in a tavern forcing his attentions on a terrified young serving wench. The idea of that bully laying so much as a finger on Azalea made his blood boil.
Just then, a stable-lad came out of one of the stalls and stopped short when he saw a stranger, obviously one of the nobility,
standing there. Plainly unsure of his responsibilities in this circumstance, he came forward hesitantly.
"How can I help you, guv'nor?" the boy asked in as deep a voice as he could muster.
"With information, my good man," answered Christian with a wink.
When the boy hesitated, he reached into his pocket and brought out a gold guinea. "This is yours, if you can help me," he said, flipping it expertly into the air and catching it again.
The lad's eyes gleamed as he watched the glinting coin. He was only an under stable-boy, and had never possessed so much money in his life as this liberal stranger was offering. Lord Kayce was not so generous that he commanded unswerving loyalty from his lower servants.
"What might you be wanting to know, milord?" asked the boy, suddenly respectful.
"Who is within with Lord Kayce right now?"
"Just the swell what owns this coach, and the parson, milord," answered the boy eagerly, his eyes never leaving the guinea.
"No one else?" asked Christian sharply.
"Oh, there's the young lady, the master's cousin or niece or some such," replied the lad, "but she's been here since day before yesterday. I thought you just meant whose horses was here."
"Thank you. A parson, you said?" The boy nodded. "Does he come here often?"
The lad had to stifle a laugh. "Never before that I've see'd, milord. Lord Kayce ain't exactly the church-goin' type, if you take my meaning."
"I understand," said Glaedon. "Then what might he be doing here now?"
"Oh, I reckon he's to do the wedding, milord. The young lady be going to marry that swell as I mentioned. Harry, the groom, told me so."
Christian was already striding toward the house. "Thank you, my lad, you have earned this." He tossed the guinea over his shoulder and the boy caught it with a grin and stowed it in his pocket. It was by far the easiest money he had ever earned.
Walking softly now, Christian approached the kitchen entrance. No one seemed to be around, but he had no desire to raise the alarm prematurely. He peered into the scullery: empty. Closing the door silently behind him, he passed swiftly through the kitchens and into the passageway beyond, then stopped. He could hear voices behind the door on his left and pressed his ear to it, trying to make out the words.