Wedding of the Year

by VICTORIA MALVEY

  Instantly, Elizabeth's guard began to rise, as it always did around ladies of quality. Snatching her hand back from Richard so as to not appear overly forward, she waited for the woman to glance at her, take in her wrinkled gown and simple hairstyle, and dismiss her with a sniff. Without even being aware of her actions, Elizabeth squared her shoulders as the woman turned her gaze on her.

  But the judging look never came, nor did the insulting dismissal.

  Instead, the woman's smile broadened. “Aren't you going to introduce us, Aaron?”

  After Mr. Burnbaum had introduced them, he laid a hand upon the woman's shoulder. “And this is my treasure, Mrs. Marta Burnbaum.”

  A pretty flush stained Mrs. Burnbaum's cheeks. “Stop with that, Aaron. You're embarrassing me in front of our guests.” The smile she turned upon Elizabeth didn't hold a trace of censure. “You must forgive my husband. He speaks his mind far too easily.”

  “I find it an admirable quality,” Elizabeth replied hesitantly.

  “As do I.” The sparkle in her eyes belied the longsuffering sigh she released. “Though he is forever making me blush in front of my friends.”

  Slanting a glance at Richard, Elizabeth murmured, “I know the feeling.”

  A feeling of kinship spread between them as Marta nodded in complete understanding. For the first time she could remember, Elizabeth felt completely at ease in a stranger's home.

  “It appears we have more in common than we realized, Aaron,” Richard said, laying his hand on the small of Elizabeth's back.

  Aaron smiled lovingly down at Marta. “Then you have been blessed as well.”

  “Blessed . . . or cursed,” Richard replied, a wicked light in his gaze. “There are times when I wonder.”

  Covering his mouth with his hand, Aaron politely smothered his laughter. Elizabeth gave Marta a pointed look. “See what I mean?”

  A moment later, both she and Marta chuckled as well.

  “Are you quite certain I cannot offer you something to drink?” Aaron said when they quieted down.

  Shaking again, Richard launched into his explanation. “As I started to say, Aaron, I've come to speak to you about Isaac.”

  “My Isaac?” All the blood drained from Marta's face as she lunged forward, gripping onto Richard's arm. “Have you seen him? Do you know where he is?”

  “Marta, Marta,” Aaron murmured, taking hold of his wife's hands and prying them off of Richard's arm. “Let him speak.”

  “Then you haven't heard from him?” Richard asked grimly.

  Aaron's eyes held a well of grief. “Not a word. I even sent one of my servants on to Gretna Green, to see if Isaac and his lady had been there, but there was no trace of him.” He slid his hands onto Marta's shoulders and pulled her back against him, as if offering her his strength. “My wife . . . she worries.”

  “I'll wager she's not the only one,” Elizabeth said softly.

  Again, Aaron shook his head.

  Richard's hand curled into her waist, making her aware of his nervousness. Knowing what he had to now tell these kind people, Elizabeth leaned into him, silently offering her support.

  Clearing his throat, Richard began his unenviable task. “Aaron, Mrs. Burnbaum, I believe I might know where your son is,” he said in a measured tone, obviously trying not to alarm them more than necessary.

  “You do?”

  The hope in Marta's voice was painful to hear. “I have recently learned that a young man named Isaac Burnbaum was assaulted the very night your son never came home.”

  “Assaulted?” rasped Aaron. “Someone hurt my son?”

  “I don't know if he was seriously harmed or not,” Richard replied. “All I know is that he was rendered unconscious and dragged off.”

  Tears welled in Marta's eyes as she shook her head, denying every word Richard said. “No, no. It's not true!” Her voice trembled with a mixture of fury and fright. “It can't be true.”

  Turning his wife toward him, Aaron enfolded her in his arms, murmuring consoling words.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Shifting uncomfortably, the butler held out a rumpled note. “Someone just delivered this to the kitchens and said it was most urgent. I took the liberty of opening it and . . . well . . .” He broke off his stammering and began to wave the note.

  Releasing Elizabeth, Richard retrieved the missive, opened it, and quickly scanned the contents. When he lifted his head, his expression foretold disaster.

  “It's a ransom note.”

  19

  The setting sun cast shadows through his study, but John didn't even notice. Ever since Catherine had stormed out of his house that morning, he'd been consumed by a single thought—she was falling in love with him.

  And how had he responded?

  By nearly pulling her down on the floor of his study and taking her as if she were a harlot. Closing his eyes, Richard leaned his head back, trying to ignore the taunting voice inside of him. So what? it said, over and over, until finally he allowed himself to argue the point in his head.

  So what? What would have happened if he had pulled her down and made love to her?

  First, he would have offered to marry her and, with that one stroke, destroyed his comfortable, organized existence.

  What a shame! Especially since it was making him so deliriously happy.

  All right. Perhaps he wasn't happy, per se, but he was comfortable.

  And is that what you want out of your life? To be comfortable?

  John squirmed on his chair, but finally he admitted to himself that he wanted more than just to be comfortable. He wanted excitement, adventure, intrigue.

  Ah, you mean everything you've begun to experience ever since you've met Catherine.

  “That's not . . .” But before he could even say the words out loud, he knew he couldn't deny the argument. It was true that ever since Catherine had become a part of his life, he'd stopped dreaming about leaving London . . . and had started dreaming about her. She'd touched a part of him he hadn't even known was inside him, the part that longed to be free, to dance under moonlit skies, to laugh out loud without care of what people might say.

  And she'd offered each and every one of those things to him. . . but he hadn't taken them. No, he'd been so locked inside himself, so determined to avoid taking on any added responsibility, that, in his blind ignorance, he had turned away the one person who could help him shed the burden he'd felt for years. My God, he had been a fool.

  “John?” His mother called through the door, before peeking her head into the room. “You are here. It's been so quiet that I wondered if you'd left the house.”

  “No,” he said softly. “I'm still here.”

  A concerned frown marred his mother's face as she came into the room. “Is something bothering you, John?”

  “Other than the fact that I seem to have destroyed the one chance I might have had for happiness, no.”

  His bitter response brought a gasp from his mother. “Is that all?” she replied lightly. Gracefully settling down upon a chair, she gazed at him steadily. “Why don't you tell me about it, and we'll see if we can't figure some way out of this together?”

  Her offer brought him out of his morose mood. His mother, offering to help him? After years of caring for the family, it seemed an odd turn of events. “I doubt if you . . .”

  “There you go again,” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “Always taking things upon yourself without accepting help from anyone. It's been like this ever since your father passed on.”

  “I had little choice in the matter,” John said dryly, remembering how lost his mother had been. “If I hadn't stepped in, we would have been financially ruined within a year's time.”

  “That's true,” his mother conceded readily, “but that didn't mean you had to do it all alone. I would have helped you, just as you helped me.”

  The concept was so foreign to John that he just shook his head in confusion.

  “If you'd let me help y
ou, John, I could have kept the books or paid the household bills or any other number of things. But you simply took over everything, patted me on the head, and told me to resume the life I'd once enjoyed before your father died.” She sighed heavily. “Much to my everlasting guilt, I accepted your pronouncement and allowed you to carry the burden for the entire family. I'm sorry for that, John.”

  His mother's apology stunned him. He'd had vague memories of her offering to help him, but he'd assumed they'd simply been polite offers, not a true desire to help. Even Catherine had accused him of taking on burdens that no one asked him to carry, but he'd dismissed her words as nonsense. His heart began to pound as he remembered all the times he'd simply gone ahead and taken charge of something without being asked. And what had his actions done to Richard? Had he taken away so many of Richard's responsibilities that it had turned him into a wastrel because he'd never had to handle any of the responsibilities?

  John pressed a hand to his temple, trying to stop the colliding thoughts all determined to bombard him at once. “I've been such an arrogant bastard,” he rasped, raising his gaze to his mother. “How have you put up with me all these years?”

  “Come now, darling, don't add this onto your already lengthy list of burdens,” chided his mother. “You're merely rather bossy at times.” She softened her words with a loving smile. “You held us together when I was destroyed from your father's death and your brother felt utterly lost.” Burrowing into her chair, she leaned her head against the wing. “You are so much like your father, John. He was always so serious, so determined to care for his own, so . . . predictable.” A girlish laugh better suited to a maid twenty years younger escaped his mother as she lost herself in old memories. “We were so very different, your father and I, which is precisely why our marriage worked so well. Whenever he got too gruff or pompous, I would tease him or do something utterly outrageous that would first make him sputter with outrage, then he'd laugh and hold me.” Her gaze sharpened once again and focused upon him. “You need someone who can do that for you, John.”

  “I found her,” he admitted, “but I pushed her away.”

  His mother smiled gently. “Are we speaking of Elizabeth?”

  John frowned at his mother. “No. I meant Catherine.”

  “Catherine! I thought you were interested in her sister.”

  “Never,” John said firmly. “It was always Catherine.” Just the mention of her name made him ache with longing.

  His mother threw her hands up in the air. “If you love her, then what are you doing sitting here? Go find that girl and propose to her.”

  John grinned at his mother's directive. “Yes, ma'am.” Wearing a grin and carrying a smile in his heart, he hurried from the study to convince Catherine they were meant to be together. Who needed to climb mountains or visit old ruins when he could have the adventure of a lifetime simply by keeping her at his side?

  Too excited to wait for his horse to be brought around, John slipped out of the house through the kitchens, out into the dusk, heading for the stables. Opening the rear gate, he stepped into the past, as the scene by the theater played itself out before his eyes again. Only this time, it was Mr. Lewis who was being set upon by the same two thugs.

  “You there!” he shouted, running forward. “Leave him be.”

  “Bloody 'ell!” the larger man bellowed as he dropped Lewis to the ground like a deadweight and turned to face John. “It's 'im again.”

  Crouching down, ready to spring, John faced the larger of the two men. “Let him go, and I'll let you walk away.”

  “You're becomin’ a real boil on my backside, govn'r,” grumbled the larger man. “An’ I think it's time ta thank you proper like for it.”

  The man's eyes shifted over John's shoulder, alerting him to the fact that, this time, there was a third person with them, but it was too late. Even as he spun to face the new threat, he felt the blow to his head . . . then nothing.

  * * *

  “I still don't think it's Morrow,” insisted Richard firmly, meeting the mutinous gazes from Elizabeth and her sister. “I even lent him some money recently, so he shouldn't be that desperate for funds.” Their expressions didn't change. “I know both of you have made up your minds that it is him, and, granted, I'll give you that he has the motive, but he's always been a womanizer, a cheat, and a liar.” He looked at them both. “Not a kidnapper.”

  “Going from blackmail to kidnapping is the natural progression,” Elizabeth pronounced, earning a nod of agreement from her sister.

  “I wasn't aware crime had a progression,” he remarked dryly. When Elizabeth pursed her lips at him, it was all he could do to keep from lunging across the Everley's parlor, snatching her up in his arms, and kissing the pout off her lips.

  The trip to the Burnbaum's had produced unexpected results. While he'd hated going there and telling his friend that his son had been abducted, he'd found Elizabeth's interaction with Aaron's wife very interesting indeed. She'd stiffened and had almost radiated coolness when Marta had walked into the room, but after a few minutes of conversation, Elizabeth had seemed to connect with the woman in a way he'd never seen her do before.

  Now all he could do was pray Elizabeth would think of how easily she'd conversed with Marta and realize that she could build a life for herself here in town.

  Thinking of Marta was a grim reminder of the tragedy that had befallen the Burnbaum's. What was wrong with him, that he was sitting here thinking of his problems with Elizabeth when his friends were worried that their son might be dead? “I'm sorry for my remark. This is hardly a laughing matter,” he said somberly. Wearily, he leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, and dropped his head down. “I can't help but wonder if Aaron is getting together all of his money for naught.” He lifted his head and looked straight into Elizabeth's eyes. “What if Isaac is dead?”

  Reaching out, she pressed two fingers against his lips. “Don't even say that,” she said fiercely. “Don't even think it. We must believe he's all right and that he will be returned safely to his family.”

  Not caring that her sister was watching them, he kissed her fingertips before she pulled away from him. “You're right,” he said, pushing aside his dark thoughts. “What we need to do is try and help find him.”

  “Exactly,” Catherine agreed as Lord Shipham walked into the room. “Have you sent someone for Mr. Lewis and for John?”

  “More than half an hour ago, so we should be hearing from them soon,” he surmised, heading to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. “Nasty business.”

  “The worst,” Richard agreed as he thrust to his feet. “I can't sit here any longer, doing nothing but twiddling my thumbs and waiting for news.” Drumming his fingers against the back of his chair, he considered where he might better use his time to help his friends. “What if I find Morrow and speak to him, try to lead him around to see if he might say something telling? He's not exactly the snappiest sail on the boat, especially when he's been in his cups, so he just might reveal some information.”

  “But I thought you didn't believe he was guilty of this crime,” Elizabeth asked, an adorable frown furrowing her brow.

  “I don't, but he's the only suspect we have so far. So I'll speak with him, then follow him, just in case I'm wrong. I'll send word if I discover anything of importance.” Deciding that he'd much rather follow a dead end than sit here and be driven mad, Richard bid them farewell, his gaze lingering upon Elizabeth for a moment, before he strode toward the door.

  “Richard!” He turned in time to catch Elizabeth in his arms. “Be careful,” she whispered, before stretching onto her tiptoes and pressing a swift but unbelievably sweet kiss upon his lips.

  Taking her public display of affection as a positive sign, Richard squeezed her tightly for an additional minute before finally letting her go. “I will,” he murmured softly, pausing to touch her cheek, then heading out of the parlor.

  Pricking herself for the umpteenth time, Catherine tossed
aside her embroidery in disgust. Elizabeth had disappeared into her workshop to fiddle with some silly experiment until Mr. Lewis or John arrived and Papa had his head buried in the accounting ledgers, claiming it helped keep him distracted. No, she was the only one being driven mad by the infernal ticking of the clock. In desperation, she'd tried to embroider, but the only thing she was doing to the piece was bleeding all over it.

  The sound of the front knocker permeated the silence of the parlor, and Catherine leapt up to see if John had finally arrived. She struggled to hide her disappointment when their butler let Lady Wykham into the house. “Lady Wykham,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage. “How nice of you to call upon us.”

  She nodded in a distracted manner. “Thank you, my dear, but I confess I came because of your note,” she said, removing the missive from her reticule. “Normally, I wouldn't have opened it, but as it came from your house and was addressed to John . . . well, I was understandably confused.”

  Now she was the one who was confused, Catherine thought, as she led Lady Wykham into the parlor. “I believe Papa's note was fairly straightforward.”

  “It's not what the note says,” she insisted. “What confused me was that I thought John was already here.”

  “John? Here?” Catherine shook her head. “The last time I saw him was at our meeting this morning.”

  Lady Wykham frowned. “But he left to come here hours ago.”

  “Are you certain he was coming to see me?” Catherine asked, before admitting, “We didn't exactly part on the best of terms this morning.”

  “Yes, yes,” Lady Wykham murmured, flicking her hand as if dismissing the comment. “John told me all about that when we discussed . . .” Breaking off, she pressed a hand to her chest. “I know John was coming here, Catherine, and if he's not here, then where could he be?”