The Wedding Caper

by Jo Ann Ferguson

“A most unsettling thought” He shook his head. “It is simple to consider what might have happened, but

  we must focus on what has happened, so we can halt it from occurring again.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  “I have to keep that consideration at the forefront of my mind. If I do not...” He looked to his left and smiled.

  Priscilla released his hands as her daughter came toward them. Lord Witherspoon was escorting her, and they were laughing together. A pinch of something she could not quite describe rushed through Priscilla as a far younger image of her daughter lay like a translucent portrait over Daphne. It seemed like such a short time ago when she had cuddled Daphne on her lap and sung a lullaby. How could the years have passed so quickly since she sat beside her daughter and guided her hands to make her first embroidery stitches? The woman in an unblemished white gown should still be wearing a guilty expression while Priscilla scolded her for ripping yet another dress while climbing trees and running along the strand in Stonehall-on-Sea.

  Neville’s arm settled around her shoulders again, and she raised her eyes toward his. In a hushed tone that would not reach Daphne’s ears, he said, “She will never grow up so much that she will grow away from you, Pris.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she had no time to tell him how much she appreciated his astute words. Blinking the tears away, because she did not want to embarrass her daughter, she smiled as Daphne introduced her to Lord Witherspoon.

  “How do you do, my lady?” The marquess bowed over her hand with a grace that spoke of much Town polish. When he straightened, she noted he was of Neville’s height. “I wanted to thank you for allowing Miss Flanders to attend this assembly. She has been telling me about your many adventures and how

  handily you have solved each mystery, bringing a killer to justice.”

  “I am sure Daphne made the situations sound more exciting than they actually were.” She glanced at her daughter, who did not seem to notice, for Daphne was beaming with happiness. “I believe you know Sir Neville Hathaway?”

  “Of course.” Lord Witherspoon’s pleasing tenor voice lightened with amusement. “Sir Neville has been teaching me the foolishness of betting against the odds, especially when luck favors him.”

  “Uncle Neville!” gasped Daphne. She put her hand over her mouth, instantly contrite at her outburst.

  Neville smiled. “You need not worry on this young man’s behalf, Daphne. He is a quick student, and I would say luck favors him often.”

  When Lord Witherspoon smiled, Daphne did, too. Priscilla watched her daughter closely. Daphne’s eyes were alight with happiness and excitement. When her daughter nodded in agreement with everything Lord Witherspoon said, Priscilla glanced at Neville, who gave her only a raised eyebrow in return. Daphne’s smile dimmed when the marquess took his leave after bowing over Priscilla’s hand, then Daphne’s. It did not return as brightly even when a baron whom Priscilla recognized as a friend of Aunt Cordelia’s asked Daphne to stand up with him for the next dance.

  Neville lifted a pair of glasses from a tray held by a passing servant and handed her one. Tapping the rim of his against hers, he said, “I believe your worries about your daughter are about to increase tenfold.”

  “Daphne is overawed by everything around her.”

  “Especially one young marquess—who seems to have taken a liking to her as well.”

  Priscilla followed Neville’s gaze toward where the dancing had begun again. Although Daphne was

  being twirled about by the baron, she was looking at Lord Witherspoon who was watching her.

  “Bother! ” Priscilla muttered.

  “Yes,” Neville said with the hint of a smile, “I think he is quite bothered by Daphne, and I suspect he will be bothering you in short order.”

  “This is not funny, Neville.”

  “I did not mean to suggest that it is.”

  “And,” she said with her own smile as she tapped him on the arm, “the problem soon will be yours as Daphne’s stepfather.”

  “By all that’s blue, I had not thought of that.”

  At his dreary expression, Priscilla could not keep from laughing. “You should have considered that you would take on that role when you married me.”

  “I did, but I did not give thought to the idea that I would be put into the position of granting young men leave to call upon your daughters.”

  “A worthy recompense, I am sure many would say, for making other fathers worry about their daughters.” She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t tell me again that your reputation was undeserved.”

  “I never said that.” He grinned. “Not exactly.”

  “Whether your reputation was undeserved or well earned, it mattered little to those fathers who worried about your intentions toward their daughters.”

  “And now the worry is mine.”

  “Yes.”

  He took her hands between his and led her to where chairs by the wall would offer a view of her daughter. Seating her, he took the chair beside her and entwined his fingers with hers. She gazed into his dark eyes, as fathomless and mysterious as the night. The warmth of his gaze surrounded her and seeped into her, tempting her to forget everyone in the room but him. Drawing her hand out of his, she raised it to caress his cheek. He turned his head and pressed his lips against her palm.

  She jerked back her hand at a shriek from the far side of the room, then realized, when she heard it again, the sound was only a shrill laugh.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I fear I am fretting my gizzard.”

  “Such language, Pris! ” He smiled gently. “Something I heard Isaac say. I should know better than to repeat what my son says.”

  “What you should do, Pris, is calm yourself before you suffer a crise de nerfs. ”

  “You know I would never give in to worrying to the point I swooned. If I did such a thing, I would feel ashamed to be seen in public again.”

  “I have to own that I would not be distressed to have you remain behind closed doors now.”

  She stared at him, amazed. “Neville, it is not like you to fret so much either. There is no reason to believe the murderer considers me a target.”

  ‘True, and that is not the reason I would like to keep you behind closed doors far from the rest of the world.” He pressed his heated mouth to her palm again.

  “You are a rogue.”

  He raised his head and regarded her with the craving she understood all too well. “If a rogue is a man deeply in love, then I accept the reference.”

  She touched his cheek again, knowing any other signs of affection must wait. She wanted to thank him for drawing her out of her doldrums with kisses, but, like him, she needed to pretend his attentions had been aimed only at delighting her instead of keeping her—and himself—from thinking about the killer who might be near and plotting the disposition of his next victim.

  Chapter Eight

  “You look as if you have ridden a hag-hound through perdition,” Priscilla said as Neville walked into the back parlor.

  ‘Thank you for the compliment.”

  She came to her feet from where she had been writing out instructions for Mrs. Moore. Although the housekeeper could run the house efficiently, Mrs. Moore was eager for a list of specific directions as the date for the wedding breakfast approached. Priscilla had not guessed so many preparations would be required. Her previous wedding breakfast had been a quiet gathering of family and a few friends. The upcoming one was certain to be a social occasion involving the ton. The guest list was growing every day.

  Putting the page on a table, Priscilla went to where Neville stood. He looked . . . haggard. There was no other word for it. His mouth was turned down in a weary frown, and the arcs beneath his eyes were as dark as the whiskers on his unshaven chin. She would have said his clothes looked as if he had slept in them, but she doubted he had slept.

  “Has something happened?” she asked, not sure she wanted to hear his reply.
<
br />   He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her

  hard. Before she had a chance to put her arms around him, he released her.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What is wrong?”

  Walking slowly past her, he went to a chair. He looked back at her, and she realized, even exhausted, he would not sit until she did. She wanted to tease him about being a gentleman, but his empty, haunted eyes silenced her.

  She sat on the settee and held up her hands. He stared as if unable to guess what she intended with the gesture. Reaching out, she took his hands. She drew him down to sit beside her.

  ‘Tell me,” she said in little more than a whisper.

  “There is not much to tell. I spoke to Thurmond, and he has come to a dead end with the investigation. He has been given another assignment.” He laughed sharply. ‘That is that, as they say. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ as the bard wrote.”

  She could taste his bitterness as if it stung her own tongue. “You know you do not mean that.”

  “No, I don’t.” When he sighed, his shoulders rose slowly. She guessed they were heavy with invisible burdens. “It galls me, Pris, to know a woman is dead, and there is nothing being done to find her killer. We have let our indifference bring us to this point.”

  “You are not indifferent to this murder. Neither am I.”

  “That is not what I meant. I am talking about the whole of the Polite World, which acts as if the rest of London’s population does not exist, unless a member of the ton seeks them out for a specific task or to be entertained. On those rare occasions when the ton and the lower classes come into contact, the Polite World pretends nothing has happened. Now even Bow Street is doing that.”

  She frowned. “Do you think Bow Street was pressured by someone to halt their investigation?”

  “No.” He sighed as he propped his fist on the curved arm of the settee. “I asked Thurmond that myself and drove him into a pelter. The problem is, Pris, that this is beyond Bow Street’s scope. They are thief- takers, not investigators. What we need is a skilled group of men policing the city. If they existed, there might be hope of capturing this murderer. Now . . .” He winced.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You look ill, Neville.”

  “It is nothing.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Nothing more than an aching head. I would not mind it half as much if I had enjoyed a few bottles to earn it.”

  “Here.” She put her hands on either side of his face. “What you need is to rest.”

  “I don’t have time for that. If Bow Street is unwilling to continue the search for—”

  “Neville, a few minutes will make no difference to the murderer, and they will make a great difference for you.”

  He did not resist when she drew his head down onto her lap. When she began to massage his temples, he murmured, “Thank you, Pris. That helps more than you can know.”

  “I doubt you have been sleeping well as you try to puzzle out the identity of the murderer.”

  ‘That is true.” He opened one eye and looked up at her. “What of you, Pris? You know your aunt will have my head and other equally precious parts of my anatomy if you are so overwhelmed that you fall asleep when the banns are next read on Sunday.”

  “I am sleeping as well as one might expect.” Especially when I cannot stop thinking of you, she added silently. She almost said the words aloud, but speaking them would be a guarantee that Neville would not rest. Her lips still tingled from his fiery kiss, and she wanted more.

  As his eyes closed and his breathing slowed from its tense pace, she knew postponing his next kiss was a sacrifice she must make. She had never seen him as exhausted, not even when he had first inherited his title and had come to Stonehall-on-Sea to escape the endless forms he needed to review with his solicitor and estate manager.

  Priscilla relaxed back against the settee and closed her eyes. She savored the brief respite as she imagined how they could share more times like this after their marriage. Sunny mornings in the garden behind Mermaid Cottage in Stonehall-on-Sea as they looked out at the sea beyond the chalk cliffs. Long afternoon walks on the rough shore beneath his ancestral estate in Cornwall while they marveled at the bizarre sculptures wind and water had made from the rocks. Quiet evenings when they sat in this very room and enjoyed the company of the children. Enchanting nights when they were alone in their bed, whether it was in a seaside cottage, distant Cornwall, or in London.

  But that was for the future. Today, she doubted Neville would remain still for long. Not only would he soon grow uncomfortable with his legs hanging over the settee’s arm, but it was unlike him to rest when there was a task to be done.

  As if he had heard her thoughts, he said quietly, “I cannot believe there is nothing more we can do.”

  “We never said there was nothing else. Bow Street did.”

  He turned his head to smile up at her. “Sweetheart, I knew you would have some insight that I would find comforting.” He curved his arm up around her shoulders. “Not as comforting as your touch, I must own.”

  “You must, must you?”

  He laughed, the sound more like his everyday laugh. “Give this poor, exhausted man a chance to regain his wits before you engage him in battle.”

  She kneaded his forehead where the lines were deep. When he closed his eyes again, she said, ‘You never are without some portion of your wits, Neville.”

  “A good half of them are missing just now.” He smiled. “By Jove, Pris, that feels good.”

  “I am glad.” She faltered, not wanting the delightful moment to pass, but knowing he would want her to share her thoughts. “Neville?”

  “Hmmm?”

  At his contented tone, she almost pulled back her unspoken words. She could not, for she owed every opportunity to bring Harmony’s killer to the gallows.

  “Neville, did anyone discover what happened to Harmony’s brooch?”

  “It was sure to have been sold by now.”

  ‘To whom?”

  His eyes popped open, and he sat up. “A jeweler or a two-to-one shop—”

  “A what?”

  “A pawnbroker. The murderer may have even contacted a fence.” He arched a brow. “I collect you know what a fence does.”

  “Yes, I know what fences and pawnbrokers do. I would guess those two would be the likely destination for a murderer trying to sell a piece of jewelry.” She rose and went to the sideboard. Pouring him a glass of wine, she said, “Harmony’s brooch was unique. It would be easily recognized if any member of the ton donned it.”

  “If the gems were removed and sold separately from the gold, it would never be found.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “It would require a skilled craftsman, so the gems were not ruined. Whoever received it would have to obtain the gemsmith’s services, and that often takes a few days.”

  “Then we have no time to waste, do we?” She smiled. “Does your friend Morton work at the Prince of Wales Theater?”

  “Yes.” He grinned as he took the glass. “Pris, I know what you are thinking.”

  She hated how her hands trembled as she filled a glass for herself. Setting the bottle down, she forced a smile as she picked up the glass. “If you are thinking that in order to find out where a murderer had disposed of his stolen goods in exchange for money, we must appear to be thieves ourselves, then you are right.”

  “Morton does work at the theater. However, it would be awkward for us to sneak costumes out without raising suspicions. The theater is closed until another play can be prepared.” He grinned wryly. “Wiggsley was fortunate the rest of the play was never seen. It would have been his ruin.”

  “And, mayhap, a reason to divert attention?”

  “With murder?” His brow furrowed. “Unlikely, because Wiggsley is more apt to slice into someone with his pen than with a knife.” He laughed. “Also, knowing Wiggsley as I do, I suspect he believes the audience would have been
won over if they had seen the whole play.”

  Priscilla smiled. What little she had seen of the playwright told her that Neville—as usual—had well taken the measure of someone else. Sobering, she asked, “Neville, how well do you know Morton?”

  “I have known him for years.” He shook his head. “If you are asking if he could be the murderer we seek, the answer is no. In spite of his rough ways, he has a kind heart.”

  “As long as you are sure—

  “Pris, I am sure about Morton. I wish I could be as sure of the others at the theater.”

  Wanting to apologize for doubting him, even though she had been right to pose the questions, she asked, “And Mr. Robertson?”

  Neville did not answer for a long minute. Taking a deep breath, he released it slowly. “Robertson has no alibi save for his own word. He was seen going into his office and coming out, but everybody I spoke with at the theater owned that he could have skulked out without anyone noticing during the performances.”

  “Do you accept his word?”

  “I always have. I always believed his vow had great value.”

  She nodded, again faltering when she longed to find the words to ease his doubt about a man he had considered a friend. “I am sorry to have to ask that question, Neville.”

  “You have to ask it. I am asking it myself, even though Thurmond is convinced Robertson is telling the truth.”

  “I am glad to hear Mr. Thurmond’s opinion. His insight has been invaluable before,” she said.

  Neville nodded. “I agree, but I am keeping my eyes open when Robertson is nearby, just the same.”

  “Would it be awkward for the owner of the theater to sneak into the theater?”

  He shook his head. “Let’s not speak of the ownership of the Prince of Wales. I hope to find a way to persuade someone else to take over the theater. ” He took a drink. ‘Your faith in me is always amazing, Pris. I believe, if we are cautious, we will be able to sneak past Robertson and persuade Morton to part with a few items as he has in the past when I asked for a favor. He will keep his lips closed, so Robertson is no wiser. I have no need for the theater manager to nag me about putting up the funds for the theater. Let’s go and see Morton.”