The Wedding Caper

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “I daresay, Pris, that you are trying to poke your charming nose”—he tapped it—“into my past.”

  “If a guilty conscience causes you to assume my words mean something other than they did, I cannot help that.”

  “Guilt?” His smile broadened. “Pris, you know I have never been inflicted with that emotion before this very moment.”

  Startled, she asked, ‘Why at this very moment?” She

  wanted to take back the question as soon as she asked it. To hear him speak of other women while they stood so close would be almost more than she could bear when her emotions were raw.

  “Because I am guilty of failing to kiss you as soon as I walked in.”

  When he tugged her to him, she gave herself to the demand on his lips. She sighed as his mouth left hers and sprinkled a trail of heated sparks along her face before finding pleasure on the sensitive skin of her neck. Her hands rose to encircle his shoulders.

  He murmured something wordlessly into her ear before his tongue teased its crescent shape. His breath sent swells of delight through her. When his lips touched hers again, she tasted their delicious warmth and yearned to lose herself in the rapture he offered.

  “You should feel guilty for not doing that sooner,” she whispered when he raised his mouth from hers. Locking her fingers behind his nape, she smiled.

  “I shall try to rectify that mistake on my next call.”

  “And the one after that?”

  “It sounds as if you wish me to make this a habit, Pris, whenever I come in the front door.”

  “Or the back.” She brushed his lips with hers. When he smiled, she leaned her cheek against his chest. Being in his arms helped her keep the horrors beyond the house from haunting her. In spite of herself, she shivered.

  His thumbs slanted her head back. “Sweetheart, I want you to feel warm when I hold you, not quiver as if with a chill.”

  “I cannot keep from thinking about ...” She stepped away, the moment shattered.

  “Nor can I.” He took her hand and led her back to the settee. “You asked me how things progressed at

  the theater, but I did not ask you how your call on Lord Lummis unfolded.”

  “You must have seen him at the theater.” Sitting, she clasped her hands in her lap. If she reached out to him again, she doubted she could restrain the tears burning in the back of her throat.

  “I did, and he was all in a flutter, as I would have expected.”

  “So you believe his shock was sincere?”

  Neville frowned. “Are you suggesting the viscount was putting on a performance which was far more successful than his wife’s paramour’s?”

  “I am asking you because you know the man better than I do.”

  “He is a lout, poorly spoken and with habits that would appall a pig.” He grimaced. “Like father, like son, I should add, because Gerald and Elwen Lummis are everything you have heard them rumored to be.”

  “If her husband learned of her affaire with Mr. Birdwell, he might have gone into a rage.”

  “It is true he has a frightful temper.”

  “I saw no sign of it last night. He appeared truly horrified by the death of his wife. That brings us back to Reginald Birdwell.”

  Neville shook his head slowly. “I know better than to discount anyone out of hand, but Birdwell is no more a killer than you are, Pris.”

  ‘Thank you ... I think.”

  “The only thing Birdwell considers important is performing before ever larger audiences.”

  ‘You must own that hangings draw a huge crowd of spectators.”

  “True, but I doubt he is ready to give his final performance in such a venue. He—”

  Voices from the ground floor drifted into the room, each word growing louder. When Neville rolled his eyes and came to his feet, Priscilla knew he had recognized the assertive voice, as she had.

  Cordelia Emberley Smith Gray Dexter swept into the room with an entrance any actor would envy. Her black hair was without a hint of gray, and her face belied her age as well. She was dressed in a pale purple gown that, like everything she wore, was of the latest style.

  “My dear Priscilla, I have been very eager to discuss the latest on dits with you,” she gushed as she kissed Priscilla on the cheek. Her voice became a bit harder when she drew off her gloves and added, “I should have guessed you would be here, Sir Neville.”

  “Aunt Cordelia,” Priscilla said, “I thought you were going to address him as Neville now that he and I are being wed.”

  “I suppose that would be more seemly.” Every word was begrudging, and she frowned when Neville’s grin broadened. Her own smile returned as she asked, “Where are my dear nephew and nieces?”

  “They were planning to go for a walk in the garden in the middle of the square after they finished their midday meal,” Priscilla said. “I am surprised you did not see them.” She went to a window and smiled when she saw Leah skipping on the walkway alongside Isaac, who was bouncing a ball. Daphne watched both of them, walking with one of the footmen. “Here they come now.”

  “You give the children too much freedom,” chided Aunt Cordelia. “This is not Stonehall-on-Sea, you know. They should be guarded more closely in Town.” ‘They never go out without a footman.” She paused when the children halted on the walkway at the very spot where they would have caught sight of her aunt’s carriage. A hasty, fervent debate was under way. No doubt Daphne was reminding her younger brother and sister of the need to greet their aunt. No doubt, as well, both Leah and Isaac were giving her numerous reasons why they should delay.

  When Daphne pointed toward the house, she glanced at the window where Priscilla stood. She said something to her sister and brother, and they turned to look up also. At Priscilla’s quick motion for the children to come inside, the crestfallen younger two nodded, while Daphne wore a superior smile. Priscilla hoped her daughter would rid herself of it before she came into the parlor. It was certain to cause her aunt to question why Daphne, so newly launched on the Season, was wearing it.

  “They should be here soon,” Priscilla said as she turned from the window. Hearing the door open below, she smiled. ‘That must be them now.”

  “Before they arrive, Priscilla, I wish to speak to you.” Aunt Cordelia took Priscilla’s arm and drew her as far across the room from Neville as possible.

  Priscilla gave him an apologetic look, and he winked. Her consternation that Aunt Cordelia had seen it oozed away when her aunt began asking questions about Daphne’s first evening among the ton. As Priscilla answered the questions, she grew puzzled.

  “Aunt Cordelia,” she said, “we did not attend Lord Mulberry’s soiree.”

  “I should think not, for it was not held.” Her nose wrinkled. “That dreadful situation at the Prince of Wales Theater. I am glad not to hear the names of anyone in this family connected with that.” She scowled again at Neville. “I trust you will discontinue such low pursuits as stalking killers when you have wed my niece.”

  “I am quite ready to let others handle it,” Neville replied, bringing Aunt Cordelia a glass of wine. Offering Priscilla the other he carried, he raised a single brow.

  Bother! She could not fault him for trying to avoid her aunt’s wrath. Setting the glass untasted on the table beside her, she said, “Neville was quite willing to let others handle it until I asked him to help me find the truth.”

  “You?” gasped Aunt Cordelia. “Have you taken a knock in the cradle, Priscilla? You have a daughter beginning her first Season, and you are . . . getting married.” She choked on the last two words. “You have to concern yourself with your clothing for the ceremony and the seating arrangements for the breakfast and which guests you will invite back to your home after the ceremony and so many other details. This is absolutely the worst time for you to become engaged in finding a murderer.”

  “I doubt there is a good time.”

  “Do not be flippant with me, Priscilla!” She started to wag her finger, but loo
ked past Priscilla. Her glower became a smile. “Ah, here are three good children who heed the wisdom of their elders. Come and let me see you.”

  Isaac was wide-eyed as he glanced from his great- aunt to her. Priscilla motioned exactly as she had at the window, and he gave his aunt the required kiss on her cheek. The two girls did the same.

  Putting her arm around her son’s shoulders, which seemed to be higher each day as he sprouted up so quickly she wondered how long it would be before he was taller than Neville, Priscilla said, “Let’s go into the back parlor and have a nice coze. I believe Mrs. Dunham has some cakes left from last night if the three of you did not finish them for lunch.”

  “There are enough left if we share,” Isaac said, wearing the same guilty expression as his sisters. Neville tousled her son’s hair and smiled. “What do

  you say to allowing these pretty ladies to have the first choice of cakes?”

  “That is not fair.” He glanced at his great-aunt and hurried to say, “But it is what gentlemen do, isn’t it?”

  “So I hear,” Neville replied with a grin sure to irritate Aunt Cordelia.

  Now it was Priscilla’s turn to roll her eyes, but she refrained. That would give her aunt another reason to lament what a poor example Neville—and Priscilla while in his company—provided for the children. She wished she could persuade Aunt Cordelia to see how Neville had brought the whole family out of their dismals in the wake of Lazarus’s death.

  “Daphne,” she said before Aunt Cordelia could release the words behind her pursed lips, “please lead the way into the back parlor. I am sure Aunt Cordelia would like to see how you escort guests into a room.” Daphne beamed at showing off her recently refined skill to her great-aunt. As she went with her sister and brother following to the door connecting the front parlor with the back, Priscilla did not move. She simply watched them go.

  “Spit it out, Pris,” Neville said as he picked up her glass.

  “Are you taking that because you are afraid I might throw its contents at you?”

  “Because I told your aunt the truth? Dash it, Pris. Aren’t you the one always demanding I be honest?” She laughed softly. “You have a very vexing way of using my own words against me.”

  “I would rather have you against me.” He gave her a heated kiss before handing her the wine that could not cool the fire left in his wake. “Shall we go and keep your aunt company?”

  “If you would prefer to take your leave ...”

  “I would be labeled cow-hearted to flee her company.”

  “Or wise.”

  He drew her hand within his arm. “Pris, your aunt needs to accustom herself to me as a part of this family.” Priscilla’s answer was forestalled when a lanky footman appeared in the doorway. “What is it, Layden?”

  “A man named Reeve is here to see you, my lady.”

  “Reeve? Mr. Birdwell’s valet?”

  Layden shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot say, for he gave me no more message than that.”

  “What do you say, Pris?” asked Neville. “Will you receive him?”

  “Of course.” Looking at the footman, she said, “Have him brought to the front parlor.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  As he started to leave, she added, “Oh, and tell Lady Cordelia that we will be joining them in the back parlor as soon as we can.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He walked toward the door.

  Feeling foolish, she called after him, “And, Layden?”

  He turned to face her again. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Please alert Mrs. Dunham to have cakes and tea brought to the back parlor.” As soon as Layden had gone out, she added, “What do you think Reeve wants, Neville?”

  “I have no idea, but I hope whatever it is may lead us to answer at least one of the questions we have.”

  Chapter Six

  Reeve slipped into the room as if afraid he would be caught somewhere where he should not be. For once, he was not wearing his work smock. His coat was dusty, and his shoes had given up any hope of a shine. Pushing his brown hair back from his face, he halted just inside the doorway.

  Priscilla watched as Neville motioned for his friend’s valet to sit on one of the wooden chairs. Reeve complied, and she said, “I am sure you will understand when I state this is most unexpected.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, for being so forward as to come to your home uninvited.” Reeve looked at Neville who was regarding him without expression. “I went to your house first, Sir Neville. They told me I could find you here.”

  “They did, did they?” He added something under his breath that sounded like, “I shall have to speak to them about that.”

  When Reeve began to shrink into himself like a dog that had been beat too many times, Priscilla sat on the settee and said, “If you have chased Sir Neville from Berkeley Square to Bedford Square, I trust your errand is of great importance.”

  “Oh, yes, my lady! ” Relief eased the lines in his face, and she wondered how long it had been since he last

  slept. The gray arcs beneath his eyes seemed too dark for losing a single night’s sleep.

  “And what is it?” asked Neville with impatience. Reeve gulped. “It is said you and Lady Priscilla have been successful solving other crimes.”

  “We have found ourselves in the company of a murderer before and needed to prove that person did the appalling deed,” Priscilla said. “It is, however, not a task we take upon ourselves gladly.”

  “Mayhap we should”—Neville chuckled—“start a service to seek out those who break the law. What do you say to that, Pris?”

  “I say we should allow Reeve to tell us what he came here to say.” She gave him a frown which she hoped he would understand meant that teasing her was hardly appropriate when the valet was listening.

  “Yes, Reeve,” Neville said. “Do tell us what you came here to say.”

  “I had hoped you would speak with Mr. Birdwell. He is refusing to return to the Prince of Wales Theater.”

  Neville leaned forward. “Did he say why?”

  “Mr. Birdwell was distraught that Lady Lummis mentioned putting an end to their love affair.”

  “Birdwell said nothing of that last night. He owned to knowing the lady, but nothing else.”

  “He is not a complete widgeon, Sir Neville.”

  “True.” Nodding, he asked, “Where is Birdwell?”

  “At his house.” The valet looked at the carpet. “He has locked himself in his room and refuses to come out. He may heed you, Sir Neville, for you are longstanding friends.”

  Neville laughed without humor. “I would not describe us in those exact terms, but I have known him for many years.”

  “He idolizes you, Sir Neville. When he has seen how

  you have remade your life, he imagines himself doing the same.”

  “I had help with my family’s tide.”

  Reeve shook his head so hard, his hair fell back into his eyes again. “No, it is more than that. He speaks of how you came to perform on some of the finest stages in London. He wants that for himself.” His mouth tightened. “Although I do not know why. He seems to have everything he could possibly need and more. What adulation he has not received on stage, his convenients have showered on him.” He straightened his shoulders as his face reddened. “I should not have spoken so about him.”

  ‘The more you tell us,” Priscilla said, “the more we will be able to help him.”

  “Mr. Birdwell and Lady Lummis exchanged some very strong words when last they spoke.”

  “When was that?” Neville asked.

  “Two nights ago. No, three nights ago.”

  “What sort of strong words?”

  The lady wished to be done with their relationship, and she spoke to him of moving from the home she had provided for him.”

  Neville’s mouth twisted. “With her husband’s money. Avery good arrangement for the two of them, because they had no need to find a place to sneak to for their trysts.”


  “So you will give him a look-in this afternoon?” The valet could barely contain his excitement, and she wondered why he was not the actor. He seemed to possess a far greater range of emotion than his employer.

  “Yes,” Neville replied. “Reeve, did I hear rightly? Are you about to join the Army in hopes of being sent to the Peninsula?”

  The valet’s chest swelled as he shoved his shoulders back. “I have seen too many make-believe battles on the stage. It is time I did my duty for king and country and went to fight some real ones.”

  “All real battles do not end on the side of good.”

  “I know that.”

  “Running off to battle to create an amour in a woman’s heart is a lousy method of finding love.”

  “How did you—? I have many reasons for wanting to get away from the Prince of Wales Theater.”

  “Including Birdwell?” asked Neville.

  “Yes.” Reeve’s shoulders sagged. “Pardon me, but may I ask what hour you plan to call on Mr. Birdwell? It might be for the best that I am not present. He has resisted all my attempts to persuade him to come out of his rooms.”

  Neville smiled as he looked toward the door connecting the two parlors. “I would say straightaway is the very best time. What do you say, Priscilla?”

  “I would say you are asking for more trouble.” She did not need to add that Aunt Cordelia would be furious at being kept cooling her heels in the back parlor.