Bridal Favors

by Connie Brockway

  Bernard cursed the miniscule hesitation in his breathing. But Justin had heard it. His smile was venal. “Why did you set her up? Oh, yes. I know you set her up. I know about the letters you sent her from every hotbed of political intrigue. Anyone watching the incoming posts would be fascinated by those postmarks, wouldn’t they? I was. But how did you keep—” He broke off and sneered delicately.

  “You simply diverted any real posts from her aunt, didn’t you? I won’t even ask how. For you, I should imagine tampering with the post would be a relatively easy matter. But why, Bernard? Why her? Why set her up?”

  Carefully, Bernard knocked the ash from his cigarette and wet his lips. “Simple, really. The man we are after stands very close to discovering the most importantly positioned agent we have ever had. He may not even know it. The only reason we do is because the information that he passes on, and which we have intercepted, is almost identical to the information our agent sends us.”

  “What has this to do with Lady Evelyn?”

  “She fits the criteria. She moves in the same circles, has access and entrée similar to our agent. She wouldn’t stand up under close, intense scrutiny, but as a short-lived red herring she is perfect. Besides, every piece of bait we angle makes it more likely we discover the spy.”

  There was a tense watchfulness about Justin that Bernard disliked.

  “You gave me the idea, you know.”

  “Did I?” Justin asked mildly.

  “Yes. When we met on the Thames and you told me about her aunt being off on her honeymoon. I knew her family had diplomatic connections, and immediately thought how advantageous it would be to have someone think that Miss Cummings Whyte was, in fact, receiving messages from international sources.”

  “Someone being your spy,” Justin said. “You might have told her what you were doing, the situation in which you were placing her.”

  “Impossible. She might have refused, and that was a chance I wasn’t going to take. No. This time her work for us was gratis. Of course, in the future she’ll be fully apprised of all aspects of a situation.”

  “There’ll be no future!” Before Bernard could react, Justin’s hand shot out, stopping just short of touching him. With a shiver, Justin rammed his hand into his pocket. The effort it cost him showed in his face.

  “You can’t seriously be willing to involve an innocent young woman in your machinations, Bernard,” he ground out.

  Uncomfortably, Bernard fidgeted with his cigarette in order to hide his trepidation.

  “Why not? She’s invaluable as a way to dispense erroneous information,” he said. “She seems a game sort of lass; she might welcome it as a bit of patriotic adventuring.” He paused, his gaze meeting Justin’s. “You did.”

  “Damn you, you wouldn’t play on her susceptibilities that way!”

  Bernard blinked in hurt surprise. “She can always say no. But why should she? Think of how perfect she is! She has access to all the right people. Not only is she the Duke of Lally’s granddaughter, she’s in and out of the houses of some of the most prominent members in government—every household that has a daughter of marriageable age, that is.”

  “She can’t because it’s dangerous,” Justin said in carefully measured tones.

  “Not at all. We wouldn’t actually have her do anything. Simply pop in here and there, keeping people interested in her activities so they wouldn’t be looking at others’. Occasionally receive an odd letter. That’s about the sum of it.”

  “As long as she stays in England. But what if she decides she’d like to travel abroad, and what if someone decides her true value is as a hostage?”

  Bernard pulled deeply on his cigarette and blew the smoke in a thin stream. “You’re being melodramatic. What are the chances of that happening?” He snorted. “How often have you been taken hostage?”

  “Never. But I’ve been detained a number of times. Besides, that’s not the point.”

  “Oh? And what is?” Bernard asked irritably. He disliked the path this conversation had taken.

  “The point is, Bernard,” Justin said, gently taking the half-burnt cigarette from Bernard’s hand and dropping it to the flagstone floor, “that that chance isn’t going to be taken.”

  He ground the cigarette slowly and thoroughly under his boot heel.

  Bernard felt the animosity rolling off Justin like cold from a glacier. Involuntarily, he recoiled, then checked himself. It would never do for a subordinate to think he had the upper hand. Nothing was more dangerous than a rogue spy. Justin knew that. Just as he knew that rogue spies were dealt with in the age-old manner of all rogue animals: They were destroyed. He must be very involved with Lady Evelyn, if he was willing to intimate threats.

  “Be very careful, Justin,” he cautioned.

  “I would offer the same advice,” Justin replied, holding Bernard’s gaze. They stood regarding one another a long minute before Bernard sighed, a saddened middle-aged professor disappointed in a star pupil. “We’ll do what we deem best, Justin. You know that.”

  “‘We’?” Justin pounced on the pronoun.

  “I co-opted the royal prerogative. I meant me.” He reached for his cigarette case again and thought better of it.

  “So you’re here to discover this agent, eh?”

  Bernard lifted his hands palms up and lowered his eyes modestly. “Who better? I would have been here when the blighter broke into Lady Evelyn’s room, except that thanks to the train derailment, the damn crate we sent arrived before I did.”

  “How did you manage an invitation?”

  Bernard was being questioned and he resented it. But he still had affection for Justin. He still would like to save his life.

  “Bunny Cuthbert and I have sat on several committees together. It wasn’t too hard to flatter an invitation from him. The poor bloke hasn’t any family, you know, only that fool dog. In fact, he was rather pathetically pleased to think he could add a name to the guest list.”

  “I see.”

  Once more Bernard heaved a heartfelt sigh. “I’ll tell you what, Justin. Play the game to its end and then we’ll see what’s what. This is too important to muck up now, just because you’ve developed a tendresse for a pert speck of womanhood.”

  Justin didn’t reply.

  “That’s the best I’ll offer, Justin.”

  With an unreadable expression, Justin drew himself up. “Then I suppose I’d best take it.” He hesitated, a bitter curl to his lips. “I suppose there never was a Diabolical Machine?”

  “Like what? An internal combustion engine?” Bernard gave a humorless snort. “Don’t be absurd.”

  At the door to her bedroom, Evelyn smiled and kissed her mother’s cheek. Behind her, Merry bustled about the room, muttering French imprecations and studiously avoiding Lady Broughton’s eye.

  “You’re sure you are all right?” her mother asked, her brow pleated.

  “I’m fine. Just a little tired. But there’s still so much to do and only one more day to do it. But after that, I may not wake for a month.”

  “You must be tired if you could fall asleep right in front of Mr. Powell.”

  Evelyn prayed the still murky early morning light hid any betraying color in her cheeks. “Yes.”

  Francesca looked toward Merry. “Merry, dear, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to stop by my room later. I’m not sure the dress I brought for the wedding fits as well as it should.”

  “As soon as time allows, Lady Broughton,” Merry nodded vigorously, “but you can see how it is.” She gestured around the cluttered room.

  A housemaid appeared at the door, her arms filled with fresh bed linen. “Should I come back later, ma’am?”

  “No, no,” Evelyn said, happy for an excuse to send her mother off. The maid dropped a curtsey and bustled toward the bed.

  Francesca, thwarted at every turn in her attempts to secure a private interview with either her daughter or the woman she’d sent to “chaperon” her, finally gave way, k
issing Evelyn on the forehead and murmuring, “Later, then, dear,” before retreating.

  As soon as she left, Evelyn closed her eyes and pressed her fingers into her temples. Her head throbbed, filled with so many conflicting emotions that no single thought could complete itself.

  In the space of twelve hours she had taken a lover and been betrayed by him; she’d learned that she was at the center of international intrigue and that she’d been placed there by a man she thought was a womanizer but who was nothing of the sort. She felt abused, used, cherished, and pleasured.

  She despised him. She loved him. She mistrusted him. She had complete faith in him. “Ah!”

  As disconcerting as it was, however, the one notion that kept popping up through the maelstrom of emotions and fears and uncertainties was the bald, impatient thought, I don’t have time for this.

  She’d contracted with Mrs. Vandervoort to produce a beautiful wedding reception. Her aunt’s livelihood depended on her. Mrs. Vandervoort depended on her. And she needed, more than ever before, to prove herself. To redeem herself.

  Let Justin deal with spies. He could do his job, and she? She would do hers.

  “All right, Merry,” she said, steeling her back and her resolve. “First things first. Is the bunting for the head table done?”

  “Yes,” Merry answered.

  “Mrs. Vandervoort’s dress?”

  “Mais oui. For days now.”

  “The silk flowers for the table arrangements?”

  “I completed them all last night.”

  “Good. As soon as I have breakfast, I’ll make sure the workmen have finished. Then we’ll hang the bunting. The cook promises the cake will be completed this afternoon.” She thought hard, her mind picking through a seemingly interminable list of details to see if she’d missed anything. “Do the waiters know their duties?”

  “Oh, yes. All arrived and most professional.”

  “Good.” Evelyn relaxed, but then immediately tensed again. She’d thought she had everything in hand the last few times she’d planned wedding receptions, too. “And everyone is well? None of the staff has come down with measles or anything?” she asked suspiciously.

  Merry laughed. “No, no, Evelyn. The only one who is sick is Mr. Quail with his malaria.”

  “Poor Mr. Quail.” Evelyn sighed. “What a pity he is too ill to attend his employer’s wedding.”

  The maid, who was busily snapping a clean sheet over the bed, made a rude sound. Merry scowled at her.

  “You have something to say?” Merry demanded haughtily, clearly intending to terrify the little maid into respectful silence.

  But the maid was the product of an egalitarian rural society. No French dressmaker was going to act her better. “Only that Mr. Quail ain’t that sick,” she answered calmly, tucking the ends of the sheet beneath the mattress.

  “Oh?” Merry asked mockingly. “And how would you know this? Unless of course you are secretly a physician only pretending to be a small little mouse housemaid.”

  The maid ignored her, addressing Evelyn instead. “Don’t need to be a physician to know that a fellow who’s bringing ladies into his room ain’t feelin’ that terrible. Goldbricking if you ask me. And ’as been right from the beginning.”

  “What?” Merry burst out. “How do you know this? Have you seen these ladies?”

  The maid straightened, pleased to be the center of attention. “Didn’t have to. I’m the one as does his bedclothes, and every time I go in to change his sheets, I’m washing makeup off his pillowcases. Don’t take a genius to put two and two together, right, miss?”

  “No,” Evelyn breathed, her eyes wide. “No. It doesn’t.”

  Justin paced his room, raking his hair back with both hands. He had to do something. He had to make sure Evelyn was safe, not only for the present but in the future, too. He had to get her out of this quagmire he’d inadvertently landed her in.

  He was still pacing when he heard a light knock on his door. Bernard again? Or perhaps Beverly, with some information. He jerked the door open.

  Evelyn stood in the hall, her eyes enormous in her small angular face.

  “What is it?” he demanded urgently.

  “I know who the spy is.”

  Chapter 23

  EVELYN MOVED DOWN the line of male servers in a last-minute check before the bride, the groom, and their guests arrived from the wedding. Each one stood at attention, eyes fixed straight ahead, gloved hands clasped lightly behind their backs.

  “Very good,” she said to Beverly, who, with the pride of a mother hen presenting her first brood, sniffed at the faint praise and nodded at the headwaiter, dismissing the staff to await the arrival of the guests.

  Evelyn walked down the hall to the great room, a critical eye scanning the pristine swan-shaped napkin beside each china place setting, the drape of satin bunting, the sheen of silver, the sparkle of crystal. Banks of imported flowers, silvery blue hydrangeas and creamy wax gardenias, fey delicate larkspurs and blowsy white peonies, filled every nook and cranny of the artificially constructed faerie glen. Overhead, the last taper had been lit, and the mirror-sprinkled ceiling shimmered with a thousand reflected lights, while in the pool outside, the lighted wax lotus blossoms floated serenely beneath the bridge.

  On the opposite bank, across the bridge, the workmen had built a shallow niche of faux rock; in it stood a three-foot-tall slab of rose-colored quartz, the cost of which had been enormous. The effect achieved, however, was well worth the expense, for it appeared as if champagne sprang magically from its top—an effect cunningly achieved by means of a glass tube inserted through its center.

  Not content with one chef d ’oeuvre, however, Evelyn had arranged for two to grace the Cuthbert-Vandervoort wedding celebration. On its own silk-draped table sat a huge, intricately arranged basket of flowers. Only when one drew near could one see that it was, in fact, a wedding cake, the flowers works of art in marzipan, each petal sparkling with colored sugars.

  It was perfect.

  No one, not even her aunt, could have done better. Now all that remained was to catch a spy.

  It was a bold plan, but when Justin had explained all they needed to achieve, Evelyn had realized there was no reasonable alternative. They had only one trump card to play: the fact that Quail didn’t know he’d been unmasked.

  So, they would move first. And they had a plan. Successful spying, Evelyn was learning, left as little to chance as possible. In fact, spying sounded like the sort of job only very competent, capable, and clear-sighted individuals would be good at. Grudgingly, her respect for Justin had resurfaced.

  Unfortunately, her role in the plan would be small, but very important. Best of all, Justin promised that their plan would not in any way effect the Cuthbert-Vandervoort celebration. No one at the party would ever know that an international incident was being narrowly averted in the rooms next door.

  Evelyn pulled her small gold watch from the pocket hidden in her skirts and checked the time. The orchestra situated in the great room began warming up. Resolutely, she approached the conductor.

  “Lady Evelyn?”

  She inclined her head. “You understand that when the bride and groom arrive, you are to immediately begin a rousing rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A most particularly robust version, you understand. We want to make the new Lady Cuthbert feel welcome.”

  “Indeed, yes.” The small man nodded enthusiastically. “We will put great spirit into it.”

  “Excellent.” The sound of voices coming down the hall brought her round. Beverly was bowing to the first arriving guests with an ostentation that bordered on the satiric. Beside him, Merry bobbed up and down, smiling with gamine delight—

  Merry?! Who’d invited her? Good God, that’s all she needed, Merry shadowing her footsteps. With a gracious tilt of her head and a nod at the new arrivals, she approached the butler.

  “Thank you, yes, I am. Y
ou’re too kind,” she demurred to a woman who asked if she was the lady responsible for the gorgeous rooms. Evelyn lowered her eyes modestly as the woman drifted by, and then seized Beverly’s arm.

  “Keep Merry with you!” she whispered.

  “Must I?” Beverly asked, his expression hounded. She didn’t have time to indulge him in his little dislikes.

  “Yes!” She turned to greet a trio of people she’d dined with a few nights ago. “Oh, do you like it? I am so pleased!” They moved on.

  “And how am I to achieve this?” Beverly asked.

  “I don’t care! Just do it!” she said, and with a brilliant smile flowed by him and out into the hall. A queue had gathered at the front door—just as they were supposed to, because the door next to it led into the library where the decoy crate stood, safe only as long as a crowd of people protected it.

  A second later a ripple of excitement spread through the crowd and they parted to admit the bride and groom. Mrs. Vandervoort—now Lady Cuthbert—swept in, regal in Merry’s magnificent blue organdy gown, her blond hair piled atop her head. Behind her, clearing his throat and beaming, came Lord Cuthbert, his stocky figure trussed most pleasingly into his cutaway, his blunt, unremarkable features pink with delight as he moved awkwardly to his new bride’s side.

  Lady Cuthbert greeted well-wishers while asking her guests to join them, an invitation to which Evelyn added her voice. Within minutes, the greater part of the crowd had entered the great room, leaving only a few stragglers hastening behind.

  Evelyn took a deep breath and looked into the mirror hanging in the hall, carefully appraising her image. Her dress was made of lilac and dark green jacquard, the off-the-shoulder neckline piped in green velvet. From where the dress fit her hips, the skirts fell in graceful folds to the floor, the crisp rustle of lilac taffeta skirts whispering over sequined shoes.

  Merry had dressed Evelyn’s hair up and wound a choker of pearls around her throat. Covering her hands were the finest kid gloves. Yes, she looked stylish. Maybe even elegant. But did she look formidable?

  It was too late to do anything about it now. She must now rely on her not inconsiderable acting skills. Besides, in her own milieu, she was formidable. She must remember that.