The Wedding Caper

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “It is a bridegroom’s privilege to contemplate his bride.”

  “Unquestionably.” He frowned abruptly. “Although I had thought you might be thinking about that horrible murder at the Prince of Wales Theater. You used to perform there, didn’t you?”

  Neville motioned once more toward the door. Closing it behind them, he opened it again just enough so nobody would be able to lurk nearby without a shadow crossing the open space.

  Pouring himself a glass of Neville’s best brandy, Duncan gulped it quickly. He refilled the glass and sat down so hard in the closest chair that the wood beneath the red upholstery groaned. “Don’t chide me, Neville,” he grumbled.

  “Why would I do that?” he asked, puzzled.

  “I don’t know, but you have the expression of a man ready to scold someone.”

  Sitting on another chair, Neville glanced around the room. Only two walls held bookcases, and not many shelves were laden with books. The previous baronet had apparently preferred to use this room for raising a cloud, because when Neville moved in, the ceiling had been stained with smoke, and the odor of cigars remained in spite of the household’s attempts in the past four years to dislodge it.

  “I am sorry, Duncan.” He looked at his friend who was sipping this glass of brandy. “It is frustrating to have a woman murdered, and the rest of the Polite World acts as if it never happened.”

  “Not all of the rest of the Polite World.”

  “No. Priscilla is quite unsettled by this.”

  “The murder or the lack of talk about it?”

  “Both.” Setting himself on his feet, he served himself some brandy. He put the bottle on a table near their chairs. “On another topic, I understand you are here at Lady Cordelia’s invitation.”

  “Quite a surprise it was to receive it. I had thought she had forgotten me since the debacle at Lord Stenborough’s estate last Michaelmas Day.”

  Neville chuckled. “Lady Cordelia never forgets anything. She can recite every misdeed she believes I have committed since the day she first met me. Be wary when you call upon her, my friend.”

  “She is quite the interesting lady. Much like the one you are about to wed.”

  “Priscilla and her aunt alike? Most definitely not.” Duncan threw back his head and laughed. “They are more alike than different, Neville. Stubborn and lovely, determined and devoted to family, curious and intelligent.”

  “Yes,” he said reluctantly, “but Priscilla is not as unwavering in her assumptions as her aunt is.”

  “Mayhap.”

  Neville changed the subject to Duncan’s journey from his estate far north in Scotland. He tried to listen to his friend, but his mind kept wandering away to Priscilla and the puzzle they had not solved.

  Not yet.

  Neville stared out the window of the carriage. The deep shadows of twilight were spreading across the streets and climbing up the houses on the far side of the square. With a sigh, he turned his gaze back inside the carriage.

  Next to him on the comfortable seat, Priscilla was looking out the window on the other side. Her endearing profile changed with each expression, but now it was taut. She was not frowning, but deep in concentration. He did not have to ask what she was thinking. He knew.

  He had gone to Bow Street this afternoon to speak with his friend Thurmond. The Bow Street Runner had had no further information about Harmony Lummis’s murder to share. Neville had told Priscilla that in what he realized had been a clipped tone when he arrived to escort her to a conversazione at Mr. Ward’s house. He had said very little since those few discouraged words.

  She turned to look at him and said nothing. She just stared as she had out the window.

  “Is there something amiss with me this evening?” Neville asked, glad only the two of them were in the carriage. Daphne was coming to Ward’s house with her great-aunt and Duncan. As if Duncan were no older than Daphne, his friend had spent the past two hours filling Neville’s head with his anticipation of the evening. “I find myself questioning your silent appraisal.”

  “I am sorry,” she said in the warm voice that filled his dreams. “I did not realize I was staring at you.”

  “I don’t dislike your appraisal, Pris. I am simply curious why.”

  “Could you not believe it is because I feel like I am going to heaven on a string? That I am so happy to be with you and happy that you love me?”

  He folded her hands between his. “Sweetheart, I would be very happy to think that. However, your face is anything but happy. Have I down-pinned you with my low spirits? If so, I apologize.”

  “You have not upset me more than I am already. I, too, had hoped Mr. Thurmond would have plenty to share with you.”

  “But he had nothing, so there is no reason to dwell on that. Let us speak of something else. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

  “Of where we shall live once we are wed?”

  He put his arm along the back of the seat and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Pris, you were chiding me not so long ago about never being able to surprise you. Now you are doing the same to me.”

  “Would you rather ...” She looked up at him and pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her eyes grew wide, and her golden lashes fluttered. “A matter to discuss? Oh, my dear Neville, whatever could it be? I trust you are not displeased with something I have done or said.” He silenced her with a hearty kiss. What he had meant as a jest became far more. His arms slipped up her back as he drew her soft curves up against him. Her mouth was delicious, and he explored it with slow appreciation. When her breath, quick and eager, rushed into his mouth, he considered raising his lips only long enough to call an order to take them back to his house, where they could have the privacy to savor every inch of each other.

  “That is nice,” she murmured when he drew back while he still could.

  “Yes.”

  She curved her gloved hand along his cheek. “Neville, mayhap we would be wise to speak of something other than our future together.”

  He groaned. “Even the most commonplace words seem to have a double meaning when I think of holding you, sweetheart. I wanted to speak of where we would live after we are wed. Do you have a preference?”

  “I always have an opinion,” she said with a laugh. “You know that.”

  “So what is your opinion, Pris?”

  “My preference would be to live in Stonehall-on- Sea.” She closed her eyes, and he knew she was thinking of the village and the comfortable house on the cliffs overlooking the sea. “I prefer it to London.”

  “Or my family’s dirty acres in Cornwall?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have given some thought to selling the estate in Cornwall.”

  “Isn’t it entailed?”

  He shook his head. “Not according to the deed I have seen, but who would buy such a dusty, fusty place at the end of the island? If it could have been foisted off on someone else, I suspect one of my ancestors would have done so long ago.” He looked out as the carriage slowed to a stop in front of a brightly lit house. “We are here at Ward’s. Think of what you wish to do about the two houses here in town.”

  “I will.”

  “We could always give one to Daphne when she weds.”

  “True.” She smiled. “However, I hope that is not for awhile yet”

  He opened the door and stepped out. “Your hopes may be doomed if Witherspoon keeps eyeing her the way he does.”

  “Speak to him, Neville,” she said as she placed her hand on his palm.

  “About what?”

  “About how young Daphne is and how swiftly she gives her heart and how swiftly she reclaims it again.” She smiled. “After all, it was not so long ago that she believed herself heart-deep in love with you.”

  “You need not remind me of that.” He walked with her to the door that was opening as they approached.

  Priscilla withheld her laugh while they stepped into an entry as simple and austere as the house’s exter
ior.

  The bright blue tile floor was bare, and there was only a single portrait on the wall. It depicted their host, a rotund man with white hair and bulbous cheeks.

  A footman in livery of a color identical to the tile led the way up uncarpeted stairs to a large room. The furniture had been pushed against light blue walls. Servants walked quietly through the room, offering glasses filled with wine or lemonade to the two score of guests.

  Neville cleared a path through the men who were so intent on their discussion of the latest bills in Parliament that they seemed barely aware of Neville and Priscilla passing. He grumbled something.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It is nothing more than the anticipation of an eternally long evening. I should have known better than to let you talk me into coming to Ward’s gathering. That chicken-nabob is intolerable.”

  Priscilla glanced past Neville to where their host was speaking with other guests in front of a row of tall windows at the far end of the parlor. Mr. Simmons Ward, now retired from the East India Company, had too many teeth in his broad smile, but in the past she had found him a genial host. She and Lazarus had not called at this house, however. He must have purchased it while she was in mourning.

  His new town house was decorated—for the most part—in the latest fashion, from the friezes lacing flowers across the ceiling to the settees covered in a rainbow of colors. Beneath her satin slippers, the cool marble floor was burnished to a shine.

  “Mr. Ward is no chicken-nabob,” Priscilla said. “His family has been of good standing among the ton for many years.”

  “But he augmented his inheritance with his work in India.” He gestured toward the opposite side of the room. “Have you ever seen anything as gauche as that blasted elephant?”

  She laughed. The stuffed creature must be life-size, and it wore some sort of fringed contraption on its back. Set in an alcove and surrounded by leafy plants, the elephant seemed to be peering out of its native jungle. She dismissed the arrangement as an aberration in the otherwise pleasant room, but clearly Neville was not so forgiving.

  “Mr. Ward must have a reason for the elephant,” she said. “Mayhap he wishes to recall his time in India.”

  “He wishes to glorify a career that was hardly glorious! ”

  “Neville! He is our host.”

  “He is a high-and-mighty block! ” He offered her a conciliatory smile as he took a glass of lemonade from a passing tray and handed it to her. “You know less of him than I do, my dear. You can be assured I did not form this opinion lightly.”

  She took a sip of the lemonade, grateful the sour taste seemed to cut through the room’s stuffy air. “Neville, if you would prefer to leave . . .”

  For a moment, she thought he was going to say he would like to go. Then he shook his head. ‘Thank you for offering me an excuse to leave, Pris, but I prefer to stay here and enjoy your company. Duncan is sure to still be at my house, and I do not like the idea of listening to him tout again your aunt’s virtues.”

  She put her hand over her mouth before a giggle could escape at his dour tone. She was pleased Duncan had accepted Aunt Cordelia’s invitation to call. He was quite unlike her aunt’s late husbands, who had been a lackluster lot. Duncan possessed a sense of humor, and he was not above being part of a prank. He was the antidote Aunt Cordelia needed for a life centered too closely on the lives of Priscilla and her

  children. Having her aunt distracted as the days counted down to the wedding was the best gift Duncan could have given the soon-to-be newlyweds.

  When she said as much to Neville, he chuckled and hooked his arm through his. He led her to where their host was expounding on the caste system in India and his opinions on it. She was not surprised when Neville questioned Mr. Ward’s assumptions.

  Mr. Ward launched into reasons why Neville was mistaken, and Neville answered the examples with his own to show why he believed their host was in error. Priscilla smiled as the guests looked at each man, appalled at the heated discussion, before they drifted away to find other, more tranquil conversations. When Neville glanced at her and winked, she wondered if he had changed his opinion of Mr. Ward. Neville seldom wasted time on anyone who did not challenge him in some way, and Mr. Ward was doing that now.

  “Lady Priscilla,” hissed a man behind her.

  She looked back and smiled at Lord Carlington, a dark-haired baron who seldom wore any expression other than one which suggested mild indigestion. He was so thin that it was doubtful he consumed much, so mayhap his countenance revealed his true feelings.

  “Good evening, Lord Carlington.” She offered her hand.

  He bowed over it, and the trio of rings on his hand glittered in the lamplight. He did not release her fingers, astonishing her. Drawing her a few steps away from Neville and Mr. Ward, he muttered a quick apology for his untoward action. Agitation filled his deep voice as he added, “My lady, if you have any influence on Hathaway as his betrothed, you should warn him that Ward does not welcome anyone to question his experiences in the east.”

  “Quite to the contrary. They both seem to be greatly enjoying their conversation.”

  “Their voices are growing more impassioned.”

  “True.” She plucked a glass from a servant and handed it to the baron. “Lord Carlington, this is not Parliament, where fiery discourse can create rancor. Quite to the contrary, I did not guess they would find so many different opinions in common.”

  Lord Carlington’s bushy brows dipped toward each other. “If you are sure they are not vexing each other ...”

  “Vexing? Most likely, but they are not enraging each other.”

  “It does not sound that way,” said Mrs. Tapper as she edged forward. Wafting her carved ivory fan in front of her full face, she winced when Mr. Ward’s voice rose as he jabbed a finger in Neville’s direction. “My dear Lady Priscilla, do you think you need to part them before the conversation escalates into more?”

  “More?” asked Priscilla, astounded at the question. “Do you mean fisticuffs? I cannot imagine Neville giving Mr. Ward a bunch of fives simply to drive his point home.”

  “And Mr. Ward,” interjected a ruddy-faced gentleman, “would know better than to land a facer on Hathaway. They are much better matched in a verbal debate than a physical one.” He dipped his balding head toward her. “Good evening, Lady Priscilla. I am Lord Meddington. We met previously at a musicale at—”

  Lord Meddington was knocked aside by a blur. As Priscilla steadied the older man before he could fall, her scold at the rude man pushing past him was silenced. The round form was easily identifiable because of the short cape the brown-haired man wore over his coat.

  Mr. Wiggsley! What was the playwright doing at Mr. Ward’s house? Once Mr. Wiggsley might have been welcome among the Polite World, but his series of failed plays had exiled him from the ton’s company.

  “Thank heavens, Sir Neville!” shouted the playwright like one of his characters bursting onto the stage. He was panting as if he had run from the theater. ‘Thank heavens you are still here.”

  “What is it?” Neville asked as Priscilla came to stand beside him.

  The playwright’s face was, save for his full lips, colorless. They said you would want to know now that you are in charge of the theater.”

  Neville grimaced at the reminder of his obligation to the Prince of Wales Theater, but asked, “Know what? I hope you are not here because of another of Birdwell’s tempers.”

  “No, Birdwell did not send me. He—”

  Tell Robertson I will stop by tomorrow.”

  Mr. Wiggsley grabbed Neville’s arm and shook it wildly. The motion pushed Priscilla back a couple of steps. As she steadied herself by putting her hand on the wall, she saw a motion in the doorway. Her aunt and Duncan McAndrews were standing there, staring at the contretemps. Priscilla wondered if matters could become more complicated.

  She got her answer when Mr. Wiggsley said, “The theater manager did not send me. Mr.
Thurmond sent me.”

  Thurmond? From Bow Street?”

  At the mention of Bow Street, Priscilla saw heads snap around throughout the room. Everyone was listening as Mr. Wiggsley choked out, There has been another murder.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Cordelia, do you want to come along?” Duncan was asking as Priscilla reached the doorway.

  She pushed past them without an apology because she wanted to catch up with Neville. Mr. Wiggsley was trailing her. When she heard her aunt give a faltering answer, she was relieved.

  That relief vanished when she heard Duncan say, “But this is your chance to be the first to know what is sure to be on dits by morning.”

  “That is true,” Aunt Cordelia replied.

  “Shall we go with them?”

  Priscilla groaned as she rushed down the stairs, almost running over a maid who stared as if Priscilla had sprouted a goat’s horns and hooves. If she paused to remind her aunt of how horrible such a scene could be, Neville might leave without her.

  “Neville,” she said as she caught up with him only because the footman hesitated on opening the door, “we are going to have company.”

  “Company?”

  She glanced up the stairs, and this time the moan escaped. Daphne was trailing Aunt Cordelia and Duncan down the stairs. How could she have forgotten her daughter was riding to the conversazione with her great-aunt?

  Neville swore under his breath, then a bit louder before calling up the stairs, “Duncan, I thank you in advance for taking Lady Cordelia and Miss Flanders to their homes.”

  “By gravy,” shouted back Duncan, “we are going with you to see what has happened.” He flung out his arm toward the other guests gathered around the top of the stairs. “Everyone is waiting for a report on what has happened.” He lowered his voice to a stygian tone. “And to whom.”