by Eva Shepherd
As long as the thugs didn’t get so bored that they needed a bit of entertainment, in the form of carrying out Lord Bufford’s threat to his precious body part, he would be safe.
The four thugs all looked in his direction, as if reading his thoughts. The rhythm of the cosh thumping against the door jamb increased, accompanied by the sound of a knuckleduster being smacked into a fist and knuckles being cracked. This thumping beat of their weapons was not reassuring. When the fourth thug unwound the feather boa and tugged on it hard, as if testing its use as a garrotte, Oliver knew he was in trouble.
Mr van Haven and Lord Bufford entered the room and he released a surreptitious sigh of relief. He had never been happier to see the husband of one of his mistresses.
‘All right,’ the American said, rubbing his hands together. ‘The cabs are ready and waiting so let’s all depart for the Savoy and a spot of supper.’
Whatever Lord Bufford and Mr van Haven had been discussing during their absence it had obviously pleased the American banker. His wolfish smile had grown even more predatory. Presumably Mr van Haven was now even more certain he had Oliver right where he wanted him. That was heading up the aisle and tying the matrimonial knot with his daughter.
Marriage or a beating by four thugs and the loss of a vital body part—what a choice. Oliver suspected marriage would be the greater torture and both would be a threat to his manhood. But if his plan worked, he would have to suffer neither fate.
He looked around the room. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for his response, and none of the expressions was friendly. Five people wanted to tear him limb from limb and one wanted to use him for his own purposes. Only Arabella meant him no harm. She was the only completely innocent person in the room. He could not see her suffer. No matter what happened tonight, he would make sure he saved her from her father’s outrageous plan of marrying her off to him.
‘Excellent,’ Oliver replied. ‘Supper at the Savoy to celebrate our engagement sounds like a splendid idea. And I couldn’t wish for better company.’ He gave a small bow to the assembled party and received matching scowls of murderous intent from Lord Bufford and his henchmen, a resigned sigh from Arabella and a smug look of satisfaction from Mr van Haven.
He turned to Arabella. ‘Let me help you into your coat, my dear.’ Oliver lifted a jacket from the coat stand and held it open for her, but got a suspicious, narrow-eyed glare in return. ‘Trust me,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Before tonight I will have saved us both from the unwanted state of matrimony.’
She gave him another distrusting look, but turned her back to him and allowed him to slip the coat up her arms and over her slim shoulders.
He paused for a moment before he let her go so he could take a second to reacquaint himself with the scent of jasmine. It was the perfume he had inhaled when he had kissed her, fresh and youthful, just like the wearer.
Disappointment jolted through him as she broke away and picked up her reticule. After tonight he would not be holding her in his arms again, would not be kissing her, would not inhale her wonderful scent. But it had to be that way. It was the right thing to do.
He offered her his arm. ‘Right, lead the way, Mr van Haven,’ he said in his most cheerful voice as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
The motley group left the dressing room and headed out the back door of the Limelight Theatre, where two carriages were waiting. Oliver helped Arabella into one and Lord Bufford and his angry mob entered the other.
Some jostling ensued between Mr van Haven and Oliver, until it became apparent to Oliver that he was expected to sit in the middle rather than Arabella, as manners would normally dictate. Presumably Mr van Haven was determined to stop Oliver from throwing himself out of the moving carriage and making his escape.
With a tap on the roof from Mr van Haven’s silver-handled walking stick, they were off, winding their way through London’s dark streets. The cab rattled over the broken cobbles, juddering the three occupants, something Oliver could hardly complain about as it caused Miss van Haven’s legs to rub against his in a rather pleasant manner.
The ride became somewhat smoother as they approached the more affluent city centre. Under the modern electric street lights, fashionable men and women were climbing in and out of carriages and cabs, and some couples were walking along the West End streets, taking advantage of the mild summer night-time air.
The Savoy appeared before them, the golden glow of its newly installed electric lighting illuminating the surrounding street, drawing them towards its promise of luxury.
The carriages stopped inside the courtyard and the ill-matched party disembarked and headed towards the doors of the hotel. The thugs for once were looking more ill at ease than Oliver as they adjusted their rough clothing with anxious fingers, straightened their spines and followed Mr van Haven and Lord Bufford inside the foyer.
The maître d’ recognised Mr van Haven and immediately ushered them to an alcove, where they seated themselves on the plush sofas. ‘Champagne all round and keep it flowing,’ the American called, causing the maître d’ to click his fingers at the nearest waiters.
As if by magic, silver champagne buckets arrived and with a flourish the maître d’ poured the wine. When he departed, with much backward bowing, Mr van Haven raised his champagne flute and offered a victorious toast. ‘To the Duke of Somerfeld and the future Duchess of Somerfeld.’
A quiet, unenthusiastic murmur went around the table. It seemed the assembled guests cared as little about the engagement as Oliver and Arabella did.
The four thugs quickly emptied their glasses. A waiter rushed forward and refilled them, which were downed in equal haste. The waiter lifted the bottle out of the ice bucket and almost dropped it when one thug growled for him to leave it.
At least the thugs were making the most of the occasion, Oliver smiled to himself as he sipped his drink.
‘We should make the announcement as soon as possible and hold the engagement party next weekend,’ Mr van Haven said, frowning slightly as the thugs continued to swill his expensive champagne as if it was cheap cider. ‘I’m sure you will be available to host the engagement,’ he added, turning his attention to Oliver. ‘It will give me the opportunity to meet your family and to see your estate.’
His new fiancée rolled her eyes. ‘That’s a bit short notice, isn’t it, Father? One week.’
‘Nonsense. That’s all right with you, isn’t it, Son?’
Oliver smiled at the American’s presumption. He presumably wanted it hosted at his estate so he could make sure that Oliver actually turned up for his own engagement party. ‘Of course it’s all right. Nothing would please me more.’
‘And you are cordially invited, Lord Bufford,’ the American added with a pointed look at Oliver.
Lord Bufford bared his teeth in what was presumably a smile. ‘Nothing will stop me from attending Somerfeld’s engagement party. And I will of course be bringing my wife. I can’t wait to tell her that he’s about to be married.’
He clicked his fingers at the now slightly tipsy thugs and they rose unsteadily to their feet. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mr van Haven,’ Lord Bufford growled. ‘But if you’ll excuse me I’m anxious to return to my wife and tell her the good news.’ With that he bowed to Arabella, sent another angry glare in Oliver’s direction and left the table. The four thugs staggered behind him, but not before one had grabbed a dripping bottle of champagne from the ice bucket.
‘What charming fellows,’ Oliver remarked. ‘It’s a shame they had to leave so early.’
‘And I think we should start organising the wedding immediately, so it can be held as soon as possible,’ Mr van Haven said, grabbing another wine bottle and refilling their glasses.
Oliver adopted his most concerned expression. ‘Oh, no. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Won’t be possible at all.’
The American paus
ed, the bottle suspended in mid-air, Oliver’s glass only half-full. ‘And why not?’ he barked and looked towards the door, as if intending to call back the tipsy thugs.
‘There’s the codicil on my title to consider.’
‘The what?’
‘Yes, the codicil,’ Oliver said, taking the bottle from Mr van Haven’s hand and filling up his glass. ‘It’s a clause in a will that...’
‘I know what a codicil is, man,’ he snapped. ‘But why should it stop you from marrying my daughter?’
Oliver took a sip of his champagne while the older man’s face turned a shade that could only be described as beetroot red. ‘If I get married before I’m thirty-five, I lose my title, the estates, everything. That means, unfortunately, if your daughter is to become my Duchess, she will have to wait for seven years. But at that time I’d be honoured to make your beautiful daughter the Duchess of Somerfeld.’ He raised his glass towards Arabella, smiled and drank it all.
She sent him a delightful, appreciative smile in return and turned to face her father.
* * *
Her father glared at her across the linen-covered table, his mouth twitching with anger, a dark flush moving up his face, from his neck to his hairline.
Arabella knew it would be wise to not react so obviously to this victory over her father, but she couldn’t stop her smile from growing larger and larger.
Her so-called fiancé had done what business tycoons, bankers and politicians on both sides of the Atlantic had been unable to do. He had got the better of the ruthless Mr van Haven. And the pleasure of watching someone finally succeed where so many had failed was infinitely satisfying, especially after what had happened with Arnold Emerson back in New York.
In both cases the result had been Arabella not getting married. But this time it was her fiancé who had saved her rather than abandoned her. Oh, yes, this was a victory to celebrate and she raised her glass to Oliver and took a jubilant sip.
Her father continued to scowl. ‘You can’t marry before you’re thirty-five?’ His usual barking voice had taken on an uncharacteristically high pitch.
‘Of course, I can marry at any time I want,’ Oliver said, refilling everyone’s champagne glasses. ‘But if I marry before I’m thirty-five I lose my title, as will my wife, and of course we’ll have no money. And, as I’ve never actually had to work for a living, I’m not sure how I’d make any more.’ He looked over at Arabella and gave a mock frown. ‘What do people actually do when they have to work for a living?’
She smiled as if he had asked a delightfully absurd question, raised her shoulders and shook her head. ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ she said, ‘because my father can see now that there’s no point us getting married after all. Can’t you, Father?’
She glanced at her father, who was looking from one to the other, his brow deeply furrowed. He slowly flicked the side of his champagne glass as he silently contemplated this development for a moment. ‘I suppose an engagement to a duke isn’t to be sneered at,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s still an engagement to a member of the aristocracy. Even if it does last seven years.’
He looked up at the pair of them. His wolf-like smile returned and Arabella’s stomach fluttered with unease.
‘Right, that’s settled,’ he announced decisively. ‘We’ll hold the engagement party next weekend. We’ll announce your engagement in all the relevant newspapers, both here and in New York, and in seven years you’ll be married, and my daughter will be the Duchess of Somerfeld.’
Arabella’s smile died and her shoulders slumped. She wasn’t going to get her victory after all. Her father still expected her to get married, eventually.
But what had she expected?
The last time she had fought her father about a man it had been over that treacherous Arnold Emerson. Her father had insisted that Arnold was just after her money, but Arabella was certain that the charming, handsome actor was in love with her, just as she was in love with him.
But she had been so wrong.
All it had taken for her father to prove his point was for him to offer Arnold a substantial amount of money to take his amorous attentions elsewhere. He had immediately disappeared, out of Arabella’s life, without even saying goodbye.
It had been devastating and humiliating and had shaken her faith in men and her own judgement.
But this time it was different.
She might know little about men, and she might have got it so wrong with Arnold Emerson, but even she could see that Oliver Huntsbury was not the man for her. Yes, he was stunningly good looking, with a devilish smile that could turn a woman to jelly, but he was an obvious womaniser. Not the sort of man any right-thinking woman would ever consider marrying.
But then he didn’t want to marry her just as much as she didn’t want to marry him. This time she had an ally in her fight against her father.
She looked down at her champagne glass and chewed the edge of her bottom lip. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad. She was going to have to get engaged, yes. But a seven-year engagement was better than a marriage. And seven years was a long time. Her father would not want to stay in England that long. And with her father safely back in America and out of her life she would have seven years to dedicate to furthering her acting career. Seven years of glorious freedom, with only the easily duped Aunt Prudence as chaperon. And seven years for her and the Duke to think of a way out of this marriage.
No, it wasn’t a complete victory, but they had won a decisive first battle.
Arabella raised her head, smiled and reached out her hand towards her father. ‘All right, Father. The Duke and I will become engaged, we’ll marry in seven years, and in exchange you’ll follow through on your promise and save the Limelight Theatre. And that is the best deal you’re going to get.’
Her father eyed her for a second, then took her hand and gave it a firm shake. And with that handshake Arabella sealed her fate as a woman engaged to be married.
Chapter Four
His mission accomplished, Arabella’s father spotted a business acquaintance across the room and departed, but not before reminding her new fiancé about the stiff penalties and the social disgrace imposed on men guilty of breach of promise. Her father was making sure the Duke knew that if he tried to get out of this engagement, he would suffer dire consequences.
But at least the theatre would be saved. When it came to business transactions, her father had a reputation for always keeping his word. And that was exactly what her marriage was, a business transaction.
She looked over at Oliver and sent him a doleful smile. Her new fiancé was as equally opposed to the sham engagement as she was. That had to be some consolation to being sold off by her father. Didn’t it?
He refilled their champagne glasses just as the supper her father had ordered for eight people arrived. The waiters lay tray after tray on the table, until it was laden with silver trays overflowing with oysters, cheeses, thinly cut cold meats, truffles and foie gras.
Arabella looked at the feast and sighed. Her fellow actors were staying in a boarding house close to the theatre and would be dining on thin soup and rough bread. Despite such humble fare and their dingy living quarters, she would much rather be with them, enjoying the camaraderie and excitement that always ensued after a night’s performance, than sitting in this grand restaurant surrounded by London’s most fashionable society.
‘Don’t worry, Arabella, it’s an engagement in name only,’ he said, misinterpreting her sigh.
She shook her head and sighed again. ‘I know. I know. My father won’t be able to stay away from his bank for much longer. He’ll return to America and then you’ll be free.’
He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘It might not be ideal, but I think a long engagement of convenience is going to suit us both very well. So, drink up, eat up, we might as well celebrate. Even if all we’re celebrating is freeing
you from your father’s matchmaking for the next seven years and saving me from being hanged, drawn and quartered by Lord Buffoon and his band of baboons.’
Arabella smiled at his deliberate mispronunciation. ‘In that case, here’s to long engagements.’ They clinked glasses and she sipped her champagne, the bubbles tickling her nose.
Lowering her glass, she gave him a considered glance. ‘I take it you don’t really have to wait until you’re thirty-five before you can marry?’
He gave her a conspiratorial wink, forcing Arabella to use all her acting skills to stop her heart from fluttering and cheeks from burning.
‘I became the Duke of Somerfeld two years ago on the death of my father and nothing can take that away from me. I’m the Duke until I die, but we don’t need to tell your father that.’
‘No, if he did find out your death would be the least of your problems. He can be somewhat ruthless when he’s crossed.’
They both looked across the busy restaurant to where her father was sitting, now deeply engrossed in conversation, presumably making yet another deal. His daughter’s future marriage settled, he had swiftly moved on to further business.
‘Don’t worry, Arabella, with both of us against him, your father doesn’t stand a chance.’
His words held a note of reassurance. He might be going along with the engagement to save his own hide, but it was nice to have an ally, someone who also wanted to defeat her father.
Arabella raised her glass again in toast. ‘To victory over my father.’
‘To us.’ He clinked his crystal champagne flute against hers.
‘So, if we’re going to be engaged for the next seven years, perhaps we need to know a bit more about each other,’ Arabella said. ‘All I know about you is your name and that Lord Bufford wants to tear you limb from limb.’
He rubbed his hand slowly around the back of his neck. ‘You obviously haven’t been in England very long if you haven’t heard the scandals associated with the Huntsbury family and the Duke of Somerfeld. And I suspect if your father knew he wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic to be joined to our family.’