A Wedding Code

by Jacki Delecki

  “Of course, my dear, but at some point Cord will demand to see you.” Amelia didn’t want to stress Hen by telling her that there was no way Amelia could stop Hen’s formidable husband. With four brothers, she was quite skilled at redirecting men, but no one could stop a determined Lord Rathbourne except his diminutive wife. And Cord loved Hen too much to be swayed by his wife’s attempts to protect him.

  “If there was any way to shield him from the labor, I’d wait and present the baby to him after. He will no doubt issue commands to everyone including poor Dr. Oglethorpe and our baby. He can be quite a tyrant.”

  The door opened quietly. Hen’s new sister-in-law, a tiny Frenchwoman who always made Amelia feel gargantuan in comparison, waited in the doorway. The former Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Valmont had recently escaped France and Napoleon’s plans to marry her to his brother for her fortune.

  “Good afternoon, my ladies.” Gabby curtsied properly before entering Henrietta’s drawing room. Gabby’s time spent hiding from Napoleon in a convent had influenced the young woman to behave with propriety despite Amelia and Gwyneth’s attempts to cajole her into joining them in their “unseemly” antics.

  Lisette remained at the door. “Shall I ring for a tea tray, Madame?”

  Amelia answered when Hen flinched and closed her eyes. “Yes, Lisette, please bring tea. And if Lady Gwyneth, Lord Rathbourne’s sister, arrives, please escort her to the morning room.”

  Unaware of Hen’s discomfort, Gabby walked over to stand next to Amelia and said, in a light, melodic voice, “Lisette told me this morning how very happy she is to be at Rathbourne House. It was most generous of you and Lord Rathbourne to permit my meme’s children to become part of your household. Lisette loves babies. She will be very helpful, just like my dear nanny.”

  Sensing her friend’s distress, Amelia rearranged the pillow under Hen’s feet and fluffed the one behind her back.

  Repositioned, Hen exhaled softly and rubbed her belly in light circles. “Please, both of you, be seated.”

  Amelia didn’t want to sit. She needed to keep moving to get rid of the fidgety, restless feeling overtaking her. She studied Hen’s face, saw her try to mask her pain for her gentle sister-in-law. The tense lines around Hen’s mouth had softened during Gabby’s distracting conversation.

  Taking a slow breath, Amelia sat next to Gabby on the diminutive, gilded ladies’ chairs facing the settee.

  “It is the least we could do for the family. It is because of Lisette’s mother that you and my brother were able to escape France,” Hen said.

  Like all the ladies’ husbands, Amelia’s fiancé, Derrick, was involved in the war against France. The men tried to make little of the brutality of their work, but the arrival of Lisette and her brother had brought the harsh reality into their homes.

  “I still can’t believe Lissette and Adrien were sent to the worst prison in France for helping you and Michael escape.” Amelia didn’t share that Derrick was surprised that the youths hadn’t been executed for their treason. Derrick had not told Amelia, but she overheard him discussing it with Cord.

  Derrick, like all the men, tried to protect their women. Amelia didn’t want to be protected. She discovered a French spy ring headquartered in a modiste’s. She had skills that could assist Derrick’s fight against France. She didn’t want to be consigned to being yet another aristocratic, pampered, and coddled female.

  “I still feel terrible about what she and her brother have suffered, but I had no one else to turn to. And Michael was so ill.” Gabby’s voice wavered.

  “It isn’t your fault that Fouche is evil and is willing to make innocents suffer. And remember what the consequences would be if your meme hadn’t helped you. Michael wouldn’t have come home.” Hen wiped away the tears streaking her face.

  “And now Lisette and Adrien are out of France and away from Fouche,” Amelia chimed in, to turn Hen’s thoughts away from the possibility of losing her brother.

  Gabby nodded. “Yes, Michael reminds me that they’ve been freed, and will never suffer again. I’m sorry that my meme is in France while her children are now in England. But she refuses to leave France. When the war ends, I’m sure Lisette and Adrien will return to her.” Gabby straightened the morning blue walking dress Amelia had selected for her. “Lisette and Adrien have reassured me that Fouche considered their mother too old to be sent to prison.”

  “Well, I guess there is some goodness in Fouche.” Amelia snorted. She wanted to comment, “Devil a bit,” as her brothers would have.

  Hen closed her eyes again and gripped the side of the settee, saying under her breath, “μὰ τὸν Δία.”

  Gabby stared at Hen, her cornflower blue eyes widening and her mouth gaping.

  Amelia jumped up to stand next to Hen. “She is starting labor.”

  Gabby muttered in French. “Oh, mon Dieu.”

  Trying not to disturb Hen—who now was panting through her open mouth, her face again contorted in agony—Gabby tiptoed closer to Amelia and whispered behind her hand, “Shouldn’t we call Dr. Oglethorpe? And Lord Rathbourne?”

  Hen groaned. “No. Not yet. You promised, Amelia.”

  Chapter Two

  Lord Derrick Brinsley lifted the hefty, upholstered mahogany chair from in front of the fireplace and carried it to a spot opposite his superior’s desk.

  His manly parts still ached from his morning visit with Aunt Mabel. Balancing on the tiny gilt chair, feigning interest in his aunt’s recitation of all the details of his upcoming wedding, was worse than being interrogated by the French. Thank God for the chairs in Lord Rathbourne’s office that could accommodate his large frame.

  All of London’s morning and drawing rooms were filled with the fashionable French-designed chairs that couldn’t fit an average sized man, which he hadn’t been since he was twelve years old. It was bad enough that his entire life was spent fighting against the tyranny of the French emperor, without also having to suffer from French fashion in his leisure time.

  He didn’t want to think about the French and their fashions. His fiancée’s French fashion protégé, Monsieur Pierpont, was a large pain in Derrick’s arse. The man was always eyeing him as though Derrick didn’t measure up to his expectations as a man of fashion. Derrick didn’t give a damn about fashion, but, since Amelia did care, he tried to give more attention to his clothing.

  His valet understood Derrick’s tastes were simple, and honored the man’s expectation that his jackets would accommodate movement instead of trussing him up like a Christmas goose.

  Derrick didn’t trust Pisspot, as he called the weasely man. There was something devious about him. It was more than the haughty Frenchman’s fashion intolerance or his own jealousy that the designer spent a great deal of time with Amelia that made Derrick suspicious.

  Derrick didn’t want to raise Amelia’s concerns, since she was already stressed by the upcoming wedding. But that didn’t prevent Derrick from having his contacts in France investigate Pierpont’s background. Derrick also asked his Aunt Mabel to verify that Pierpont was truly the nephew of Lady Wadsworth. According to Lady Wadsworth, his parents were guillotined, and she had been working for years to bring her beloved nephew to England. In these times, it was prudent to be careful, and Derrick was more than careful with Amelia.

  “Pray, be seated…” Lord Cordelier Rathbourne raised one dark eyebrow in his familiar sardonic manner. “…whenever you’re ready.”

  He’d been so lost in thought Derrick hadn’t realized he was still holding the mahogany chair aloft.

  Rathbourne, the highly-respected head of Abchurch Office, wasn’t prone to joking or laughter, but as Derrick spent more time with the man, he learned to appreciate Rathbourne’s droll sense of humor. There was a lighter side to the man all of England was depending on to save their country.

  Derrick noted Rathbourne’s loosened, pristine white cravat, the only jarring note in his de-rigueur perfect gentlemen’s morning attire. It was evidence of the la
ck of sleep that had darkened the skin under Rathbourne’s eyes to almost the same ebony shade as his eyebrows and hair, and heightened the weariness clear on his harsh, angled face.

  “I’ve just received word. Fouche was officially removed from his position as head of the Ministry of Police. His office and staff have been disbanded.”

  “So Fouche’s plot to kill King George pushed Napoleon’s tolerance for Fouche’s machinations?” Derrick asked.

  Rathbourne tugged on his cravat. “Most likely Fouche’s lack of respect for royalty touched too close to Napoleon’s newly acquired royal blood.”

  “Royal blood, my arse!” Derrick choked out. “I assume all of Napoleon’s actions are driven by his need for adulation and power.”

  “That’s a given. But Napoleon’s obsession with power works to our benefit in this case, since Fouche is out and Valmont has returned to France as our agent.”

  “How long will it take us to untangle all the plots and subterfuges Fouche has set in place?” Derrick asked.

  “Napoleon has disbanded the Ministry of Police, but the men loyal to Fouche will not simply disappear. For years, he has been building a network of spies, assassins, and thugs. We must assume Napoleon will utilize the resources for his own villainous purposes.”

  The men sat in silence, each pondering possible sources of the next threat against England.

  Rathbourne ran his hand back and forth along his jaw. “Fouche will not step down passively. He’ll continue to be a threat that we must not underestimate. And he will certainly pursue Valmont and Kendal, the men who uncovered his plot and set in motion his dismissal.”

  “I do not have your trusting nature,” Derrick said.

  Rathbourne barked out a laugh. “Trusting!”

  Derrick spent a great deal of time with Rathbourne since his engagement to Rathbourne’s wife Henrietta’s best friend. And, like Derrick, Rathbourne was a large, silent man who didn’t trust easily. Their suspicious natures were an important asset in their work.

  “Can you trust Valmont to not kill Fouche while he is in France? His revenge would ruin our strategy to use him as a double agent.”

  “Of course I cannot trust Valmont. His sister was nearly abducted, and he was shot and left for dead. I cannot fault him for seeking revenge.”

  “Then how could you allow Valmont to return to France?”

  “Expediency. Valmont, as a former marquis-turned-spy, will hopefully learn Napoleon’s timetable for invading England. We know Napoleon is assembling forces and building boats in Eastern France. I had to take a calculated risk.”

  “A calculation that there is a greater likelihood that Valmont will return to England with intelligence rather than kill Fouche.”

  Rathbourne nodded. “Before Valmont left for France, he reassured me that killing Fouche would be too simple. Valmont plans to make Fouche suffer for terrorizing his sister. If anyone threatened my sister or my wife, I’d be hard-pressed to spare the criminal. Besides, Fouche has never exhibited any honor in the game of spies. He is willing to prey on the weak to achieve his goals. Thus, I can appreciate Valmont’s need for justice, as you well do too?”

  Derrick stared at the deep burgundy tones in the Aubusson rug at his feet. “Not many believed in me beyond you and Sir Ramsay. I will always be in your debt.”

  Derrick was ostracized by society after he broke all social taboos by supposedly eloping with his brother’s fiancée. Everyone but Rathbourne’s predecessor, Sir Ramsay, and then Rathbourne himself, had assumed the worst and questioned his honor. Derrick never learned how the men discovered the truth, but he was recruited to work for the Abchurch offices while he remained a social outcast.

  “Yes, we all had reputations that Sir Ramsay looked past when he called upon us to serve our country.”

  Rathbourne had a reputation of being reckless, wild, and a rake of the first order, until he met Lady Henrietta. Derrick had insight into the man that few outside the family circle would believe—the dogged, uncompromising man would do anything for his tiny, brilliant wife.

  “Are you worried about the threat to your brother-in-law, or possibly his wife?”

  “Of course. Henrietta would never forgive me if anything happened to her brother or Lady Kendal. Since he returned from France, Kendal has been well guarded since he is our code breaker. Nothing will happen to Henrietta’s brother or Gabby on my watch.”

  Derrick shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. His boss was a prickly sort who didn’t like interference. Derrick hesitated, knowing he was stepping outside the boundaries of his position. But his duty to raise the issue outweighed the possible repercussions. “Speaking of ears everywhere, don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that two French emigres with family connections to Valmont and his sister are now in your household?”

  Rathbourne’s eyes narrowed on Derrick’s face, but Derrick refused to be intimidated by his superior’s scrutiny. “I couldn’t say no to the family who was pivotal in saving my brother-in-law’s life. But that doesn’t mean that they aren’t being closely monitored. I would never risk strangers to join my household with Lady Henrietta, Edward, and Uncle Charles.

  “I assumed as much.” Derrick grinned. “I also know how hard it is to say no to a redhead.” Derrick flashed on agreeing to wear an embroidered burgundy vest on his wedding day because Amelia wanted him to match the flowers. Something he would admit to no one.

  “Henrietta isn’t a redhead like Amelia—my wife can be very reasonable.” Rathbourne leaned back in his chair. “But since the pregnancy she seems to have acquired a few redheaded traits.”

  Derrick wasn’t offended by the reference to Amelia’s bright red hair and her matching fiery personality. He loved her passionate response to his lovemaking, her competitive streak, her athleticism in cricket, and her defense of anyone suffering. He loved Amelia, and the light she brought into his dark past, as Lady Henrietta had done for Rathbourne.

  “I somehow feel like I should take offense on Amelia’s behalf.” Derrick raised his eyebrow in imitation of his superior.

  “I meant no insult to Amelia, who is as steady as my wife.”

  Rathbourne rubbed his chin. “Now, my sister…although not a redhead…”

  The door swung open, and Rathbourne’s Aunt Euphemia marched into the room with a footman scurrying after her.

  In a stern, no-nonsense voice, she addressed Rathbourne. “You must go to your wife. Her time has arrived.”

  Rathbourne bolted out of his chair. “Now?” He strode to the door, then paused in the doorjamb. “She has started having birthing pains?”

  “She’s been laboring all morning,” Aunt Euphemia announced.

  Rathbourne’s voice was low and intense. “And why am I just being notified?”

  Derrick stood by his chair, unsure of his role.

  Aunt Euphemia followed into the hallway. “Because I’m the only one not bound to silence by a promise to Henrietta not to tell you. She has made Amelia and Dr. Oglethorpe promise secrecy. You were not to be told until she was almost ready to deliver the baby.”

  “Of all the misguided, harebrained ideas.” Rathbourne threw up his arms. “Why in the hell wouldn’t she tell me?” Derrick had never witnessed Rathbourne as having anything other than complete control of himself, typically slow to react to any disaster.

  “I’m going to kill Oglethorpe for allowing my wife to be in labor without notifying me.”

  Aunt Euphemia grabbed Rathbourne’s arm as he turned to ascend the stairs. “That is exactly why Henrietta didn’t want you to know. She believes your concern will make you unreasonable.”

  “Me? Unreasonable?” Rathbourne’s voice echoed in the hallway.

  Aunt Euphemia patted his arm. “Of course I reassured both Henrietta and Dr. Oglethorpe that you would be able to control your emotions, since you are fully aware that a calm, reassuring husband will be the best possible support for Henrietta.”

  “My God. I can control my emotions in
every extreme situation. I’ve faced my death more times than I want to remember. Why should my wife have such little faith in me?”

  A high-pitched shout of “μὰ τὸν Δία” echoed in the marble hallway.

  “Henrietta!” Rathbourne rasped his wife’s name as if all the air had had been knocked from his lungs. His ruddy complexion turned ashen. He took the stairs two at a time up the long, winding stairwell to the upper floor.

  “What is Lady Henrietta shouting?”

  “According to Amelia, she is swearing in Ancient Greek. She is cursing the Greek God Zeus.” Aunt Euphemia shook her head vehemently, tilting the fuchsia turban perched on her head to the side like a listing sailboat. “Balderdash. I’m too old for such drama. Get me a brandy, my boy.”

  Derrick was only called “boy” by his Aunt Mabel, and now Aunt Euphemia. “Of course.” He walked toward the older woman. “May I help you to a chair?”

  “I might be old, but I’m not an invalid.” She paraded to the other mahogany chair in front of the fireplace.

  Unlike most ladies of her age and position, she didn’t sit on the edge of the chair with her ankles crossed daintily and her hands folded in her lap. She leaned back and crossed her legs as a gentleman would.

  “You better pour yourself one, too.”

  Derrick stared at Aunt Euphemia. Having just spent the morning with his Aunt Mabel, he was used to the vagaries and whims of women of “an age.” They showed no discretion in meddling in the personal matters of anyone who was younger than they. Which of course was all of London.

  “I convinced Amelia to leave Henrietta’s side long enough to have some tea in my drawing room. She has refused to leave her friend, because of the promise they made as young girls. But since she is an unmarried woman, I imagine the birthing process will be a bit of a shock, even to someone of Amelia’s fortitude. You must go to her. She will need your support and comfort.”

  Derrick’s stomach lurched. My God, Amelia was with Lady Henrietta. His hands trembled when he poured the brandy. He knew nothing of births, or the pain women went through to deliver a baby. How was he to calm her?