“Move along. Find your sport elsewhere.”
Confident the two could easily intimidate the rag-tag farmers, Barth tenderly wiped the stream of blood from the old woman’s forehead. His anger only increased at the sight of the woman’s patched and tattered clothing. A Gypsy, he acknowledged. He had been in Rome long enough to hear the condemnation and outright hatred for the traveling folk. And among the peasants there was still the long-held belief that Gypsies could be blamed for any disaster or ill luck. It was obvious the locals had decided to take out their frustrations on the poor old woman.
Keeping his eye on the frail woman in his arms, Barth could hear the mumbled curses as the men slowly retreated. They clearly were prepared to offer violence to a lone woman but were far less anxious to take on three armed men with obvious military training. At last, Simon and Philip were standing beside him, and with great care Barth slowly helped the stranger to her feet.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, hoping the woman could speak at least some English.
“No.” Much to Barth’s relief, the woman offered them a tentative smile as she brushed the twigs and dirt from her skirt. “Gràzie.”
“We should get her away from the village,” Philip intruded, his gaze still on the retreating men.
Barth gave a sharp nod of his head. “Can you lead us to your home?”
The woman’s smile widened. “Sì. I lead.”
Much to Barth‘s surprise, the woman agilely turned on her heel and began walking toward the nearby woods. Barth turned to regard his companions for a silent moment. He had no desire to leave this woman on her own. Those farmers would be certain to finish the job if they had the opportunity. Then again, he had seen enough clever traps during the past few years not to tumble into one like the veriest greenhorn. At last, he gave a shrug, and the three men followed behind.
Keeping on sharp alert, they threaded their way through the trees, Philip in the lead and Simon following behind. Barth could smell the distant smoke of an open fire, but it still came as a surprise when they rounded a corner and suddenly came into full view of the campsite.
Barth instinctively held his pistol ready as he watched the old woman being surrounded by a sudden crowd of women and men, all chattering at the top of their lungs. It took just a moment, however, to realize that they were simply reassuring themselves that the woman was not seriously injured.
With a shrug, he lowered his pistol. “I believe this is home.”
At his side, Simon gave a nod. “Shall we go?”
“There is little use in remaining.“ Philip made the decision. “It is getting late, and I have a particularly enticing widow awaiting my attention in Rome.”
Barth was well aware of the noblewoman who had made herself blatantly available to his friend. A beauty, although too coldly aloof for his taste.
“Not as enticing as my barmaid, I’ll wager,” he assured Philip.
On the point of leaving, they were abruptly halted by a young maiden. “Wait. Please. Grandmother wishes to thank you.”
Now this was more his taste, Barth decided, openly admiring the dusky beauty with dark eyes and flowing hair. Nothing cold or aloof about her.
“There is no need.” Philip spoke for them all.
“Please. Have a seat.”
She waved slender hands toward a fallen log, and glancing in the direction of his friends, Barth reluctantly moved to perch on the uncomfortable seat. Soon Philip and Simon had joined him.
Barth could only wonder what was expected of them. Although they had been in Rome for some time, he had had no dealings with the Gypsies. He could only suppose they wished to offer them some type of reward for saving the old woman. He sincerely hoped that it had nothing to do with the peculiar aroma coming from a large cauldron hanging over an open fire.
Before long, the old woman was walking toward them. Uncertain what to expect, Barth was still surprised when she held out her hands, revealing a perfect rose.
Too polite to protest, Barth watched in amazement as she approached him and brushed the soft bloom against his forehead. At the same moment, she muttered low words that were impossible to decipher. He frowned as she repeated the same to his friends.
Then, stepping back, she smiled.
“What is this?” Philip demanded of the young woman.
“A blessing,” she informed them.
Barth was more puzzled than concerned by the strange occurrence. A Gypsy blessing was no doubt as sincere as their fortunetelling.
“What did she say?” he demanded.
The beautiful woman allowed a mysterious smile to curve her lips. “She says,
A love that is true
A heart that is steady
A wounded soul healed
A spirit made ready.
Three women will come
As the seasons will turn
And bring true love to each
Before the summer again burns . . .
You are very fortunate. Grandmother has blessed you with the gift of true love.”
True love? That was her blessing?
Barth gave a startled blink; then, together with Simon and Philip, he allowed his laughter to echo through the campsite.
* * *
Barth emptied his glass and leaned back in his leather seat. Although the elegant London gambling house was filled with gentlemen, he had managed to find a quiet corner to enjoy a farewell drink with Philip and Simon. It would be his last before leaving London for Kent. The mere thought was enough to make him shudder.
Simon was lifting his glass with a less than steady hand and glancing at his two friends with a mocking smile. “What shall we drink to?”
Distracted from his unpleasant thoughts, Barth lifted his empty glass in response. “Lovely ladies,” he retorted, allowing the image of the delightful Monique to float to mind. She would be waiting for him in the small house across town—a thought that made his heart pound a bit faster.
Philip suddenly joined in. “The more the merrier.”
“So much for the Gypsy’s blessing,” Simon taunted.
“Blessing?” Barth snorted as he recalled the absurd words that oddly refused to be banished from his mind. True love? Not likely. At least not for him. “Curse is more like it.”
“Ah, but the heat of summer has not yet come,” Philip reminded them in low tones.
Barth was decidedly startled by his friend’s words. Philip was the last man he would have expected to fall for such ridiculous fancies.
“You do not believe in such nonsense?”
“True love? Fah.” Philip predictably retorted.
Simon glanced at them both. “I do not know. I loved Fiona this afternoon. Until she threw that vase at my head.”
Barth refilled his glass. “Casanova had the right of it. Love is meant to be shared with as many willing beauties as possible.”
Without warning, Philip suddenly surged to his feet. “Let us make a wager.”
“A wager?” Simon demanded.
“Let us say . . . a thousand pounds and a red rose to be paid the first day of June by the fool who succumbs to the Gypsy’s curse.”
Barth gave a small flinch. Unlike his companions, he had not been blessed with a bottomless bank account. Indeed, he was already feeling the weight of his most current debts. Which, of course, was why he would soon be on his way to Kent.
“A thousand pounds?” he growled.
Philip turned to regard him with a challenging smile. “Not frightened that you might succumb to the wiles of a mere female, are you, Barth?”
“You forget I am about to be wed,” Barth retorted with unknowingly bitter tones. “How can a gentleman find true love when he is shackled to necessity?”
“Simon?”
The handsome young gentleman gave a shrug. “I have no fear.”
“Then we shall meet here the first day of June.” Philip expectantly waited for them to rise to their feet. Simon was quickly out of his chair, and after only a moment�
��s hesitation, Barth also rose. With a flourish, they touched their glasses together. “To the Casanova Club. Long may it prosper.”
One
The opera dancer was an exquisite sight to behold as she lay upon the rumpled bed. With titian curls, deep black eyes, and lushly feminine curves, she had created a sensation the moment she had fled the chaos of Paris for the security of London. Her success upon the stage had only ensured her position as the most sought-after courtesan among the ton.
It had therefore been a decided surprise when she had ignored the excessively generous offers of protection from several gentlemen for the more modest tokens from Lord Wickton.
Not that she regretted her decision, Monique acknowledged as she gave a luxurious stretch. With her undoubted beauty, she would easily amass a fortune, for now she preferred the pleasure of indulging her own sensuous nature with a gentleman who was not only extraordinarily handsome but a well-versed lover who knew precisely how to please a woman.
Now she studied his tall, well-muscled form as he stood beside the window. A flare of excitement arrowed down her spine at the bare torso and firmly molded legs. Even with his chestnut hair ruffled and his handsome brow furrowed in thought, he was a magnificent beast. It was little wonder every lady in London had tossed their heart at his charming feet.
“Such a fierce scowl, mon cher?” she purred softly “What troubles you?”
For a long moment, Lord Wickton continued to stare out the window; then he slowly forced himself to turn to face Monique.
“I fear that tonight will be our last,” Barth admitted, not surprised when the French beauty stiffened in shock. What gentleman would willingly walk away from the exquisite temptress? Not that he was willingly doing so, he silently admitted. He wished for nothing more than to remain in London with his mistress and his friends. But growingly persistent bill collectors were a stern reminder that his freedom carried a price he was no longer able to pay.
“You have found another mistress?” Monique pouted, her dark eyes stormy.
“I am leaving for Kent on the morrow.”
“Leaving London?” There was a hint of shock in her tone. A creature of comfort, Monique could not comprehend anyone daring the wilds of the English countryside. “But you will soon return?”
Barth smiled with sardonic amusement. “Not without my wife, I fear.”
Monique’s startled breath hissed between her teeth. “You are to be wed?”
“Yes.”
“I have not heard of this. To whom do you marry?”
The image of a pale young girl with adoring amber eyes and a habit of following him about like a devoted puppy rose to Barth’s mind. He shivered. It was not that Isa Lawford was not a worthy, thoroughly eligible young maiden. She was without a doubt all that was good. But the knowledge that he was being sold to the highest bidder to replenish his family’s empty coffers made his entire being repel in horror. What gentleman would not detest being forced up the aisle? And somehow it only made it worse to know that Isa was desperately in love with him. Bad enough to be burdened with a wife without the constant concern he was wounding her tender emotions.
“Miss Lawford,” he answered in abrupt tones.
Monique gave a toss of her head. “This woman, she is rich and from an oh, so proper family?”
Barth’s lips twisted. “She is very rich. As for her family . . .” He gave an expressive wave of his hands. “They desire a title that I just happen to possess. I also possess an estate that is in desperate need of a wealthy countess. We should suit quite well.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Pretty enough, I suppose.”
“And she adores you?”
Barth gave a sharp laugh. “But of course.”
“Monster,” Monique chided.
The familiar sensation of being forced toward the gallows rose within Barth, and with a determined motion he walked toward the vast bed. Tonight was his last in London. He intended to enjoy himself.
“I did not come here to speak of my bride. I came here to forget.”
Although there was a hint of sadness in the dark eyes, Monique readily held her arms open.
“Then come and forget, mon cher.”
* * *
Realizing she could delay the inevitable no longer, Isa Lawford reluctantly left the sanctuary of the garden and entered the front drawing room. She gave a faint grimace at the overpowering scent of flowers that were banked about the vast room. At least the bouquets managed to soften the ostentatious formality, she acknowledged. She had never admired the stiff brocade furnishings and heavy gilt molding. She even disliked the cherub-painted ceiling that had been created by an Italian master.
Unlike her mother, she felt no need to hide the fact that her grandfather’s wealth came from the shop behind an excess of lavish elegance. Indeed, she was exceptionally proud. of her grandfather, who had risen from the son of a farmer to become one of the most powerful merchants in all of England. He was certainly more worthy than her own father, who was the youngest son of a nobleman and could be found night or day in the lowest gaming houses in London.
Not that Isa did not sympathize with her mother’s uncomfortable position. Although her vast wealth and husband’s connections had ensured her place within the neighborhood, there was a decided air of condescension in her presence. It was little surprise that she insisted upon the largest, grandest manor house in Kent or that she was anxious to secure her daughter in a situation of staunch respectability.
Unfortunately for her, Isa had no intention of fulfilling the latter desire.
Although in her susceptible youth Isa had imagined herself in love with the dashing Lord Wickton, she had long since come to her senses. Only the worst sort of fool would wish to tie herself to a hardened rake, she thought with a flare of disgust. Especially one whose only interest in her was centered upon her excessively large dowry.
No, when she wed, it would be to a kind, sensitive gentleman who would treat her with respect.
A small smile curved her lips as her thoughts naturally turned to one gentleman in particular.
Mr. Peter Effinton was certainly kind and sensitive. He also possessed the astonishing intelligence of a true scholar.
What maiden who possessed her full faculties would not prefer such a gentleman?
“Isa?”
Lost in her thoughts, Isa gave a small jump as she realized that her mother had entered the room and was regarding her with disapproval.
“Yes, Mother?”
The large woman with faded blond hair and pale eyes gave a click of her tongue.
“You annoying child.” Mrs. Lawford swept a glance over Isa’s tumbled blond curls and well-worn gown of light green muslin. “Where have you been?”
Isa shrugged. “In the garden.”
“Do you have any notion of the time?”
“I presume that it is close to lunch.”
The air of disapproval only deepened. “Do not attempt to pretend you have forgotten that Lord Wickton is due to arrive today.”
The delicate features that Isa had inherited from her father, as well as her small frame and large amber eyes, grimaced in distaste.
“How could I possibly forget?”
“And just look at you,” Mrs. Lawford continued in stern tones. “You must go upstairs and change. I will simply have to make your apologies to Lord Wickton.”
The small countenance settled in lines of mulish determination.
“I have no intention of changing, and certainly no one is going to apologize to Lord Wickton.”
The pale eyes widened. “What has gotten into you, Isa?”
“Really, Mother.” Isa heaved an exasperated sigh. Although she loved her elder relative, Louise Lawford could be extraordinarily blind when she chose. “What do you expect? I have been cast aside and ignored for the past five years. Now that the notorious Lord Wickton has graciously lowered himself to pay a visit, I am not going to flutter about like a susceptible schoolgir
l. If he wishes a toadeater who will bow and scrape for a morsel of his attention, he should have remained in London.”
Mrs. Lawford lifted a hand to her bosom in shock. “May I remind you that Lord Wickton is soon to be your husband?”
“Lord Wickton has not asked, nor have I consented to be his wife,” she retorted in cold tones.
Although a doting mother who was often prone to giving sway before her strong-willed daughter, Mrs. Lawford was determined upon one point. She would do whatever necessary to see Isa as countess of Wickton.
“Perhaps there has been no formal announcement, but the marriage has been expected for years.”
Isa lifted her golden brows. “I do not recall being consulted on this decision.”
“You have always been well aware ofour desire for you to wed Lord Wickton.” Mrs. Lawford stepped toward her unruly daughter. “And until the past few months you have been quite satisfied with the arrangement. Indeed, you were most anxious to become Lady Wickton.”
Isa felt a hint of embarrassment at her absurd calf love.
“That was because I was a gullible fool who allowed myself to be blinded by a handsome countenance and the practiced charms of a rogue.”
“Isa,” Mrs. Lawford protested.
“What? Am I to pretend that I do not hear the constant whispers of Lord Wickton’s exploits?” The amber eyes flashed. “I would have to be blind and deaf not to know he has seduced half the ladies in London. Or that his current mistress is considered the most beautiful courtesan in all of England.”
A flush of color darkened Mrs. Lawford’s regrettably long face.
“My dear, a lady does not discuss such things.”
Isa frowned with impatience. Although she had no wish to disappoint her mother, she also had no desire to follow in her footsteps. Isa’s father had remained in Kent long enough to produce Isa before he was rushing back to London and his unsavory companions. He made little attempt to disguise his numerous affairs or the fact that he possessed a thorough disinterest in his wife and child.·
Here Comes the Bride Page 17