Bridal Favors

by Connie Brockway

  The sick man shook his head. “There’s nothing they could do,” he haltingly said. “It’s malaria, ma’am. I have the medicine in my valise. Please. I just need rest.”

  Mrs. Vandervoort’s mouth pinched with distress. “Please. Help him.”

  “Of course,” Evelyn said, leading the way down the hall. “Merry, please show Mrs. Vandervoort and, er, Grace Angelina Rose to their rooms. Beverly, this way.”

  Evelyn ushered Mrs. Vandervoort’s secretary to his room, and would have stayed to see him comfortable except that the poor man’s embarrassment was so acute, and his desire for solitude so obvious, that she deemed it the better course to simply withdraw, with a promise to look in on him later.

  She hurried back to the front hall, hoping to repair the abominable impression she and the helpful Merry had made on Mrs. Vandervoort. The hall was empty. Even Justin had vanished.

  At once her mind provided a plethora of suppositions and conjectures, fears and frets—none of them having to do with Mrs. Vandervoort.

  What was he thinking? Was he even now packing, congratulating himself on a near escape? She supposed she shouldn’t have giggled, but the absurdity of the situation had suddenly overwhelmed her, and he really had been pounding on the door like a man possessed. Or a man terrified . . . Of what? Her? Could he be as interested in her as she was in him?

  The thought hit her like a physical blow, disorienting her.

  A few minutes later Merry came sauntering down the hall and found her still standing there. The ladies, she said, were resting before dinner, and Buck had transported Mrs. Vandervoort’s crates to her room. “And most unhappy she looked that they’d preceded her here, too.”

  “And Mr. Powell?” Evelyn asked casually.

  “Went off as soon as you did. Should I find him?”

  “No, no,” Evelyn answered hurriedly. “I just, ah, I just wondered where he’d gone.” Gads.

  Merry nodded. “I should find him. You obviously want to talk to him—”

  “No!” She cast about for something to explain her sudden interest in Justin’s whereabouts. “The fact is that Mr. Powell isn’t supposed to be here at all.” That was good. And true, too. “He promised to make himself scarce once Mrs. Vandervoort had arrived.” She stopped in sudden realization and looked helplessly at Merry. “You don’t think he’s really left, do you?!”

  Merry snorted as if the idea were daft.

  “Not that it’s any of my business, mind you,” Evelyn said, much heartened by Merry’s snort. “But it would make things more difficult if he left now. It’s such an old house. So many little quirks and things only he would know about. Why, that door is a perfect example!”

  “Door?”

  Evelyn nodded. “To the wine cellar. Who’d have guessed that the drat thing could lock by itself. Is anything wrong, Merry? You look odd.”

  “Nothing is wrong, Evelyn. I was just pondering the oddness of old houses and old butlers.”

  Evelyn frowned. “I’m not sure what one has to do with the other.”

  “It’s an old French saying.”

  “Oh!” Evelyn said, enlightened. She strode by Merry. “Well. I’ll be off then. Carry on doing whatever you’re doing.”

  “That would be Buck.”

  Evelyn jolted to a stop. “What?”

  Merry’s expression was bland. “I am doing his uniform for the wedding. The poor man can’t drive the wedding carriage in homespun.”

  Evelyn blushed. Clearly, her mind had taken to dwelling in the gutter.

  Merry reached out and patted her on the cheek. “Réveille-toi, ma belle dormeuse,” she said fondly before chugging off down the hall, presumably in search of Buck.

  Evelyn hurried in the opposite direction, the need to sort her thoughts driving her to the solitude of her room. She closed and locked the door behind her, then threw herself on the middle of the bed.

  She could still feel his hand, hear his voice, taste him. It was an example of her newborn depravity that she hadn’t even cared much that Mrs. Vandervoort had almost caught them being, well, depraved. He’d kissed her and she’d liked it. And he’d liked doing it. She didn’t have a single, solitary doubt about that.

  She had always been very careful where men were concerned. From the time of her coming-out, she’d watched every nuance of a man’s reaction to her. She’d been quick to spy the subtlest signs of feigned interest, so that she could be the first to disengage her attention. It wasn’t that she’d never been smitten; she’d simply never allowed herself to believe anything could come of it.

  Oh, without doubt she could have caught a husband. After all, her grandfather was a duke. But she didn’t want to catch a husband. Because, as much as she was a realist about her looks, she was equally realistic about the good qualities that she did own. She was proud of her accomplishments, and she would not marry a man who didn’t appreciate them, too.

  And what becomes of a proud golem? It lives alone and dies.

  She shook her head, denying a desent into distasteful self-pity. She was smart, capable, useful, needed. Aunt Agatha needed her. Her family needed her. Mrs. Vandervoort needed her.

  And now she was wanted, too. By Justin Powell.

  The muscles in her shoulders relaxed. Her heart submerged itself in unaccustomed bliss. The feeling of euphoria was indescribable, a warm bath of contentment washing through her, a shimmering river of happiness suffusing her not only emotionally but physically.

  Everything was perfect. The wedding preparations couldn’t be going any more smoothly. Every one of her ideas had come to magnificent fruition. North Cross Abbey had been dug out from a century of neglect, and under her watchful eye had been reborn into, well, not precisely splendor, but certainly quaintness. But best of all, Justin Powell had been carried away by his attraction to her!

  How could her life be any better?

  The specter of the old Evelyn Cummings Whyte, the Evelyn Cummings Whyte of that morning, tapped nervously at her contentment, willing to point out a few possibilities and urging an analysis of the facts. Why would he want her? How long would he want her? What then? What next?

  She refused to listen, closing her mind to that poor creature’s urgent protests. She rolled over onto her back and dragged the pillow to her chest, hugging it.

  She didn’t want to die alone without ever knowing just what “carried away” ultimately led to. Not that she believed for a second that Justin Powell would marry her! The idea was ludicrous. But he did want her.

  She rolled over, her eyelids slipping shut in languid repletion, replaying every second, every touch, every look and caress. She wanted him, too. And she was going to have him. But how? She opened her eyes. She was going to need some expert advice.

  With that thought, she hopped to her feet and strode to another bedchamber farther down the hallway. She knocked. The door swung open a second later, and when Merry saw who stood there, her ingenuous face broke into a wide, knowing smile.

  She took Evelyn’s hand and pulled her inside saying, “Come in, ma petite. I have been expecting you.”

  Chapter 17

  JUSTIN STRODE DOWN the hall wearing an irritable expression, looking into the rooms he passed as he went by. For the past six days—ever since Mrs. Vandervoort had found them in the wine cellar—he hadn’t caught more than a few glimpses of Evie. True, he hadn’t gone out of his way to look for her, but he’d been waiting, anticipating the arrival of the diabolical device while he charged Beverly with the task of watching her.

  Justin had purposefully stayed away from the manor, taking his meals in town while he tried to ferret out news of any recent arrivals—besides Mrs. Vandervoort’s guests, whom he’d adroitly avoided. His questions about anyone sporting a bruised face led to naught. As far as he could tell, no one had scraped their knuckles in the whole bloody town. Soon, the bruises would fade and be useless as a means of identifying his assailant.

  Thwarted in town, he’d spent the next few days on the forest ro
ads around Henley Wells trusting Beverly to keep an eye out for the “device.” At least he’d been doing what he was supposed to have been doing. And if in the course of doing it he hadn’t seen Evie—and thus hadn’t been tempted by Evie—didn’t he have a good reason?

  What was he supposed to do with all these immensely distracting feelings? They were grossly inconvenient. He’d never been a particularly randy chap, yet just the thought of Evie in his arms, pliant and sweetly lax and . . . There, that’s all it took. A simple moment of recollection and he was primed and ready.

  Not the best way to conduct a covert operation.

  And it angered him that at the ripe age of thirty-two, after what anyone would account several lifetimes’ worth of adventures and dangers, he’d been overwhelmed by a pint-sized, black-haired hoyden masquerading as a dowd in a stiff wool dress.

  And now she wasn’t even anywhere around. Where the bloody hell was she?

  He popped his head through the door to one of the rooms she’d overturned just as easily and thoroughly as she had his life. A trio of strangers stood by the windows, teacups in their hands. Blast. More of the Vandervoort woman’s friends. They’d been arriving in dribs and drabs for the last few days, well groomed, well dressed, well heeled. They regarded him with interested smiles. He wasn’t interested back. He wanted to know where Evie was.

  “Mr. Powell, isn’t it?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes,” Justin answered shortly, and after peering around to see if Evie was hiding in some corner somewhere, he left.

  Poor Evie. She probably was hiding from him, now that he thought of it. If he was rattled by their last encounter, she must be shaken to her very core. Slipping out of side doors, jumping at the sound of a male voice . . .

  Suddenly, it seemed essential that he find her and reassure her. And if part of him was aware of the absurdity of this abrupt decision, after dodging her for days, well, everything about his behavior lately was absurd. The knowledge didn’t provide him with any comfort.

  A knock on the front door attracted his notice, and he moved toward it, distracted by the thought of a miserable Evie ducking him. He pulled the door open. Ernst Blumfield stood outside dressed in dinner clothes with his hat in his hand. Blast.

  “I have been invited to dine with Lady Evelyn,” he announced with a shade of conceit. “And, of course, the delightful Mrs. Vandervoort. If you would be so kind—?”

  “Don’t know anything about it.” Justin let the door go. It shut with a satisfying click. Since when had Blumfield become so cozy with Evie that he thought himself invited to dinner? And how had he contrived to meet “the delightful” Mrs. Vandervoort? Clearly, matters had become muddled while he’d been assiduously pursuing Her Majesty’s enemies. Humph.

  Midway down the hall, a door opened. A pair of trousered legs crowned with a mountain of white froufrou began waddling down the hall.

  “Beverly!” Justin called out, striding to meet him.

  The mountain ceased moving and turned. “Sir.”

  “What the blazes are you doing?”

  A short pause. “Pretending to be a blancmange? Sir?”

  “Did she set you up to this?”

  “Yes, if by ‘she’ you are referring to Mistress Persistence, She of Myriad Wants and Needs, Her Most—”

  “And just who gave you leave to neglect your duties to me and our other,” Justin groped around for an appropriately discreet word, “commitments?”

  “You did. Sir,” the blancmange answered. “You told me to stay close to Her.”

  “Blast you, Beverly. Where is she?”

  “The last time I was the happy recipient of one of her honeyed requests, she was in the east courtyard. Wielding a sledgehammer.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “This afternoon, sir.”

  “Any idea where she might be now?”

  “Mrs. Vandervoort often insists that she join her and her guests for the evening meal.”

  “She does?” Justin felt his indignation rising. “That seems a bit autocratic, doesn’t it?”

  “I think Lady Evelyn enjoys it. Not that I’m paying such close attention, you understand. But she’s hardly one to mask her feelings.”

  “No, she isn’t, is she?” Justin said softly before clearing his throat. “Well, then I ’spect that’s all right.”

  The mountain of white froufrou shifted. “Will there be anything else, sir? Lady Evelyn required that I bring these to Mlle. Molière, after which I am to check Quail—”

  “Quail?”

  “Mrs. Vandervoort’s secretary. The fellow with malaria.”

  “Oh, yes,” Justin said, a trifle guilty at having forgotten a sick guest in his home. “Bad luck, that. How’s the poor chap faring?”

  “I believe he is on the mend, sir. His fevers come less frequently. But he is wary of leaving his room lest he collapse again. He has a great deal of pride, unlike some others who shall go nameless.”

  Justin smiled amiably, not having really attended Beverly’s answer. “Very good. I suspect I should go see if Evie would like a friendly face about, what with all these strangers here.”

  The tower of white rustled and a hand dug a small, dark tunnel through the silk and ribbons. A single, morose eyeball glowered at him from the shadowed depths. “Like that, sir?”

  Justin scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s dinnertime, sir.”

  “So?”

  The ribbons about the tunneled hole quivered with the exhalation of a heartfelt sigh. “Mrs. Vandervoort and her guests generally dress for dinner.”

  “I am dressed,” Justin huffed.

  “Respectably. Sir.”

  “Pah!”

  “If you return to your room, you will find your black coat is ironed and there are new collars in your drawer. And if you need assistance—?”

  “I don’t,” Justin said.

  “As you say, sir,” Beverly replied doubtfully, the single eye fixed on Justin’s head. “But perhaps you wouldn’t object to my making merry with a pair of scissors?”

  “I would indeed object. There’s nothing wrong with my hair.” With that, he left Beverly and hurried to his room.

  Ten minutes later he emerged, settling his jacket more comfortably about his shoulders and yanking the collar into alignment. He headed directly for the great hall as the most likely place to dine. When he arrived, he found he barely recognized the deserted room. It took only a few seconds to realize why. Evie had transformed the place.

  From an echoing, drafty vestibule, she’d created a high lofty bower, a romantic fantasy reminiscent of Avalon and Camelot, knights and ladies, and eternal springs. Garlands of white silk flowers fell in graceful swags from the vaulted ceiling high overhead. Atop the beams she’d set hundreds of white candles of varying height and thickness, some half and even three-quarters spent, wading in thick tallow pools of their own luminous wax, creating pearly stalactites dripping from the beams.

  Set in the new plaster covering the ceiling were diamond-shaped mirrors. When the candles were lit and the French doors flung wide, the currents of warm air would flutter the garlands and make the candles dance, and the mirrors above would throw back the light a thousand times over. It would be breathtaking.

  He wandered into the center of the room and noticed the gleaming glass doors that gave out to the once damp and musty little courtyard. He released a slow appreciative whistle. Whatever she’d paid, Mrs. Vandervoort had gotten the best of the bargain.

  The courtyard, too, had been altered nearly beyond recognition. Somewhere, Evelyn had found workmen to dredge and enlarge the mud hole, transforming it into a lovely goldfish pond. Giant white lilies lifted waxy fragrant heads above the smooth, mirrored surface. A charming white footbridge spanned its width, leading to a series of platforms of differing levels and varying sizes, giving the impression of a craggy, magical dell. Each platform blended artfully into the next by means of huge banks of flowers and cunningly fashi
oned papier-mâché boulders.

  How she’d managed, he could not guess, just as he could not guess at the engineering and carpentry skill that allowed the entire thing. And he’d tell her as soon as he saw her. He’d read her need for approval years ago, when she’d sat swinging her spindly legs on her parents’ kitchen table. Her legs were no longer spindly, but the desire to please, the need to prove herself, was intense as ever.

  He left and went to the back room where his grandfather had once had his meals served. Laughter filtered through the heavy oak door; the sound of voices, muffled and indistinct, masculine and feminine, followed. He pushed it open.

  Inside, twenty people sat around a long oval table. They were an elegant crew. Pomade polished the carefully groomed heads of gentlemen wearing coats so dark they ate the light, and whose high, starched collars were so crisp they dented their smoothly shaven jaws. Unconsciously, Justin ran a thumb along his own jaw. Perhaps he should have shaved.

  If the men reminded Justin of urbane Thoroughbreds, the women did even more so. Diamonds winked from their ears and shimmered round their throats. Form-fitting velvet encased their long equine torsos, and spotless white gloves sheathed their slender arms from fingertip to elbow.

  They hadn’t spied him yet, and with an unusual prick of self-consciousness, Justin raked his hair back from his temples, looking about for Evie’s dark gray gown. It took him a moment to realize there were no gray gowns, dark or otherwise. Nor any dark, tightly braided coiffures. Nor high-necked gowns of any sort at all. In fact, from where he stood, he could see eight ladies’ faces, and none of them was Evie’s. He also noticed five ladies’ backs, all practically naked.

  Clearly, Beverly had been wrong. Evie was not amongst the Vandervoort dinner party. Either that or she had developed a headache. . . .

  While he’d been searching for Evelyn, the diners had slowly become aware of him. Conversation grew hushed. The gentleman and ladies seated opposite where he stood looked at him askance, while those with their backs to him turned to see who had interrupted their party.

  Only one lithe female form remained facing forward, a lady sheathed in deep ruby-colored velvet, the flawless expanse of her alabaster shoulders a foil for the dark tendrils spilling from a low, loose knot of hair.