Three Weddings and a Murder

by Milan, Courtney

  The footfalls drew to halt just outside the room.

  The door latch rattled. Once, then again.

  “Harry?” A sultry, feminine voice slid between the door panels. “Harry, it’s me.”

  Harry?

  Eliza looked to him. Her stomach lurched as the truth of the scene became clear. He hadn’t been napping in this room. He’d been waiting for someone. A lover.

  The shameless rogue.

  An impatient knock sounded at the door. “Harry, are you in there? I brought champagne.”

  His chest rose and fell in a noiseless sigh. But he didn’t answer.

  After long moments, soft footsteps carried the disappointed lover away. Leaving the two of them to stare at each other.

  “I told you,” he said. “You didn’t want to leave just yet.”

  Eliza drew a slow breath. If she’d exited the room a few moments earlier, she would have crossed paths with his lover. She would have been seen fleeing a private encounter with London’s most infamous rake.

  He stroked his thumb over the back of her trapped hand. “And no,” he said. “I didn’t plan to kiss you. Not just then. You’re rather young and…unfinished…for my tastes.”

  She wrenched her hand away, feeling the sting of humiliation.

  “You scoundrel,” she whispered hotly. “You planned an illicit assignation in my family’s morning room?”

  He shrugged and ambled a few paces to the table where he’d left his drink. “Handy thing about morning rooms. They’re vacant in the evenings. Usually.”

  “That’s revolting.”

  “Not the way I do it.” He smiled. “I promise, it’s quite nice. Nothing like snails.”

  “I’ll never sit on that sofa again.” She shuddered. “I should expose you and your debauchery.”

  “Brilliant idea. Expose my debauchery, to the shock of”—he glanced at the empty room—“no one. And expose yourself to the scathing gossip of the ton. Silence is the better choice here, my dear.” He tipped his drink.

  She hated admitting he was right. No one could ever hear of this—not even Georgie. She could only pray that he never related the tale.

  He fished the key from his waistcoat pocket. “It’s yours now.”

  She snatched the slender bit of metal from his grip.

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  You’re welcome? The nerve of the man. “You expect me to thank you? For holding me against my will and subjecting me to cruel humiliation?”

  “No,” he said. “You can thank me for saving you from a fate far worse. Do you not understand what just transpired? I sacrificed a bubbly, sensual delight—and a bottle of champagne—on your account. My evening is ruined. Your reputation is not.” He affected a gallant bow. “You’re welcome.”

  Perhaps by forgoing his sordid tryst, Mr. Wright had preserved her reputation. However, he’d also saved himself a great deal of trouble. The inconvenience of facing an irate mistress tonight, or flashing pistols with her father at dawn.

  She wouldn’t believe for a moment his motives were selfless.

  “Don’t fancy yourself a hero.” Her voice and fingers shook as she fit the key in the lock and turned it. “You would not have been in this room at all if you weren’t the most appalling, detestable sort of man.”

  He deflected all her insults with a single arched brow. “And you would not be here either, were you not the most intractable sort of young lady. But I’m not holding that against you.”

  By the time she had the lock turned, he’d made his way to her side again. This time, he pulled open the door and held it for her. As a proper gentleman would.

  He said, “It’s not so bad, you know.”

  Just walk on. Ignore him. He’s only teasing, baiting—hoping you’ll ask.

  “What isn’t?” she asked.

  Eliza, you fool.

  “Being us.”

  “Us? I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  He tamed a stray wisp of her hair. “I mean there are two kinds of people in this world, Eliza. Those who are good, and those who are interesting. You’re young yet, but you’ll see in time. It’s not so bad being on this side.”

  “We are not on the same side of anything.” She strode through the entry, turned, and shut the door in his handsome, devilish face. “Not anymore.”

  June 2, 1811

  My dear Philippa,

  I’m afraid we can’t make it to Town this year, given my condition. Won’t you visit us in Norfolk once the season ends? My sister-in-law, Caroline, would be most glad of the company, and Sir Roland’s estate is lovely in full summer. There are Roman ruins nearby. I think you’ll find the environs amenable to your favorite pastimes of wandering and daydreaming.

  Bring Eliza if you like. It might do her good.

  Yours, etc.

  Margaret

  IF SIR ROLAND FARNSWORTH was a snail, Eliza decided his sister Caroline was a jaybird. A bossy, fluttering nuisance of a young woman with a squawking voice and a sharp, beak-like nose. It was easy to understand why Margaret had been so desperate for company here in Norfolk.

  “Pippa! Liza! Over here.” With a flapping hand, Caroline called them over to a hedgerow that bordered the lane. “Bring your baskets. Don’t dawdle.”

  Once again, Eliza found herself envying her sisters. Margaret had the excuse of being round with child and needing a quiet rest at the house. Clever Philippa had brought along a book as a portable means of diversion. Meanwhile, Eliza toiled at Caroline’s whim.

  “This one’s just bursting with fruits,” Caroline said. “And they’re just the right amount of squidgy.” She arched her eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”

  Eliza didn’t know what she meant. Not at all. Caroline was always making strange innuendos that Eliza supposed were intended to sound worldly or witty, but just made no logical sense.

  “Do come along then, Liza.”

  Eliza obeyed, tromping heavily through the ankle-high grass. She wore a thin sprigged muslin frock and lightweight nankeen half boots, but the ridiculous sunbonnet on her head weighted her every step. A “gift” from Caroline, it had the circumference of a cartwheel, and narrow ribbon ties that kept choking her. Eliza had tried to refuse it, but Caroline had remarked with another pointed eyebrow that she would not send home a be-freckled Miss Cade—if Eliza knew what she meant.

  It meant Eliza was stuck with the bonnet. For now. All afternoon, she’d been dreaming up ways to lose it. But there weren’t any handy ponds or streams. The breeze wasn’t strong enough to blow it away (hurricane-force gales would be needed for that). And one never could cross paths with an enraged goose or hungry goat when one desperately wanted to.

  “Mind the thorns.” Caroline stood back while Eliza bent to pick gooseberries from the hedgerow. “And I say, Pippa—do put away your reading and join us. Books belong in libraries, dear.”

  “Berries belong on bushes.” Eliza divorced a fat gooseberry from its stem. “Yet here we are.”

  Caroline didn’t try to engage that argument. “I hear that Lord Brentley will soon be returning to Suthermarsh. That is cause for excitement.”

  “Is it?”

  Caroline laughed in a superior way. “Oh, my dear Liza. Excitement indeed! I’m sure I don’t know any gentleman Lord Brentley’s equal. So handsome. Margie must invite him for dinner at the first opportunity, and you may see for yourself. Pippa, I warrant he’ll pull your nose out of that book…if you know what I mean.”

  Eliza couldn’t restrain herself. “No one calls her Pippa. No one calls our sister Margie. And no one calls me ‘Liza,’ either.”

  “Well, I do.” Caroline gave Eliza’s ear a tweak. “Because we’re going to be the best of friends, we three. And you must call me Caro.”

  Must we?

  To keep from saying it aloud, Eliza plucked a berry from the bush and popped it straight into her mouth. The tart-sweet burst of juice made her whole face pucker.

  “Ah! Oh help!”

&n
bsp; The outburst came from Philippa. In her intense devotion to literature, she’d snagged herself on the hedgerow.

  “Don’t move,” Eliza told her, setting down her basket and hurrying to help. “These thorns are nefarious. Is it your sleeve that’s caught? Or your shawl?”

  “I…” She winced. “Neither, I fear. It seems to be my arm.”

  “Oh, no.” Eliza craned her neck and gingerly pushed aside the branches to view the wound. She sucked in her breath through her teeth. “Oh, Philippa. However did you manage this?”

  A formidable thorn nearly two inches long had snagged the soft flesh at the back of her sister’s arm. What unhappy luck. If she’d only met the needle head-on, she would have recoiled with a mere prick or scratch. But the angle was such that the thorn had burrowed straight under the skin like a splinter. The hedge had her skewered most viciously.

  When Eliza so much as touched the branch, Philippa cried out in pain.

  “What is it?” Caroline asked, flitting about in a state of panic. “What’s happened? Oh, I told you to leave that book.”

  “There’s no need to panic,” Eliza said calmly, pulling the small pair of shears from her apron pocket. “I’ll just snip you free. Then we’ll see about removing it.”

  Her sister nodded, gritting her teeth in anticipation of the pain. A fine sheen of perspiration shone on her brow.

  “Do be careful,” Caroline said, hovering over Eliza’s shoulder to see.

  “Do step back.”

  Eliza snipped the thorn where it met the branch, allowing Philippa to stagger free and sit down in the grass.

  “Oh, it hurts,” she moaned, stretching her neck to look over her shoulder. “I’m almost glad I can’t see it.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Eliza assured her. “It’s more painful than serious. You’ll feel good as new once it’s plucked out.” Getting it out, however, would be a true challenge. She grasped the tiny edge with her finger and thumbnail. “Hold a moment. Almost have it.”

  “It’s not bleeding, is it?” Caroline asked, bending to look. “I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  Then stop gawking and get out of my way, Eliza wanted to reply.

  “It’s not bleeding,” she answered instead. “Not much, anyhow.”

  As she pulled on the thorn, Philippa yelped with pain. A large, quivering teardrop of blood welled at the site of insertion.

  Apparently that single drop of blood was one drop too many for Caroline Farnsworth. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she dropped to the ground like a felled tree.

  In all the excitement, Eliza lost her grip on the thorn, and it slid deeper than ever. It was completely embedded beneath the skin now. They would need a sharp needle to remove it, if not a surgeon.

  “Drat.” She blew some loose hair out of her face and made a soothing pat on Philippa’s good arm. “It’s no use. We’ll have to go back to the house.”

  “How?” Philippa asked, gazing with horror at their unconscious hostess.

  “I suppose I’ll go ahead and return with help.”

  Her sister winced. “That could take an hour. What if you get lost? What if she doesn’t wake? You can’t leave me alone with her.”

  Just then, Eliza heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels rumbling on the lane. The hedgerow made a wall between her and the road, but if Eliza could find the gap and flag down the passersby…

  She ran along the hedgerow, looking for the nearest gap. At last, she found a small burrow in the thicket. She plunged through. Thorns scratched at her exposed arms. Her oversized straw bonnet snagged, and the ribbon ties nearly strangled her, but she pushed on, emerging breathless into the lane.

  “Stop!” she called, dashing into the center of the road and waving madly to the approaching carriage. “Stop, please!”

  HARRY PULLED HARD on the reins. In the lane ahead stood a young lady wearing a smock and an enormous straw bonnet. She leapt and waved for their attention.

  Far be it from Harry to refuse a woman attention.

  He murmured to Brentley, “I thought we came out here to avoid the temptations of Town. You didn’t warn me that in your neighborhood nubile young ladies fling themselves before a man’s carriage.”

  Brentley only laughed. “She must need help.”

  Did she? She looked healthy and fit enough to Harry’s eyes. He couldn’t make out the woman’s face, what with the bonnet—but he could see that her figure was curved and pleasing beneath the simple apron she wore.

  The bonnet amused him greatly. Yes, they were in the hottest part of summer, and he could have wished for a bit of shade himself—but that bonnet. It was like the rings of Saturn, that thing. The brim orbited about her head.

  As the phaeton rolled to a halt, Brentley called down to her. “Ho, there. Can we be of some assistance?”

  Harry remained silent, holding the team still. He’d let his friend do the rescuing. Brentley was the local lord, anyhow. And though Harry was a duke’s heir with a few attendant leanings toward gallantry, he tried to suppress them as best he could.

  “Sirs, please,” she said. “If you will, my companions have fallen ill during our walk, and—”

  A gust of wind caught her bonnet and pushed it at a sudden tilt. Harry caught a glimpse beneath it, receiving a general impression of English prettiness. And then—for the briefest of instants before she had the brim tamed—their eyes met.

  Well.

  He saw it in her eyes. More than a year later, and she recognized him, too.

  Oh no, her expression said. Not you. Any man but you.

  Oh yes. We meet again, Miss Eliza Cade.

  He laughed to himself. The world was a damned amusing place.

  “Taken ill, did you say? More than one in your party?” Brentley slid down from the phaeton’s high perch, and Harry followed, securing the reins.

  “Yes. I’m Miss Eliza Cade. My sister and I are guests at Farnsworth Hall. Perhaps you know it?”

  “Know it?” Brentley smiled. “Why, I’ve only owned the adjacent estate all my life.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “You must be Lord Brentley then?” Belatedly, she dropped in a curtsey. “We’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance—though I would wish it were under happier circumstances. This is my friend, Mr. Wright.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Harry smiled. “Really? You don’t seem sure.”

  She threw him a glance—a penetrating dart of blue. Ah, he remembered those eyes. They were the best shade of blue. Not shallow or watery, the way blue eyes could sometimes be—but a rich, cornflower hue that kept a man looking.

  “Where are your friends?” he asked.

  She ducked under her bonnet again. “If you’ll just come this way.”

  They followed her through a smallish gap in the hedgerow, fighting and shoving their way through the grabby branches.

  “My sister caught herself on a thorn, you see. And then poor Miss Farnsworth fainted dead away at the sight of blood.”

  They emerged to find a scene reminiscent of a Greek tragedy. Two muslin-clad ladies draped across the grass, moaning. Harry probably shouldn’t have been tempted to laugh, but truly. Apparently the “accomplishments” of well-bred young women didn’t include common sense these days. What was England coming to when three ladies tangled with a hedgerow, and only one survived the experience?

  At least Miss Eliza Cade was the one left standing.

  Two points to the hedgerow, one point to her.

  Harry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and doused it with brandy from his flask before holding it under the unconscious lady’s nose. Miss Farnsworth, was it? Meanwhile, Brentley assessed the elder Miss Cade’s wound.

  “How did this happen?” he asked, gingerly poking her arm with a gloved finger.

  “Bad luck,” she answered, wincing. “And inattention. I was reading.”

  “Reading this?” Brentley plucked a smal
l volume from the grass. He smiled upon reading the title. “Shakespeare. How fitting. ‘Is love a tender thing? It is too rough. Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.’”

  Oh, if Miss Cade felt any pain, Harry could see it was all forgotten at that moment.

  “‘If love be rough with you, be rough with love,’” she recited back to him. “‘Prick love for pricking—’”

  “‘And you beat love down,’” they finished together.

  The two smiled at each other—sweet smiles, just sticky with treacly, poetic emotion.

  Harry felt he’d be sick. The last thing Brentley needed was a summer romance—especially not a romance with a dewy-eyed poet who, for all her reading, couldn’t outsmart the average hedgerow. Romeo and Juliet were just as idiotic, and look how that had turned out.

  He’d put a stop to this. Here and now.

  Harry rose to his feet. “Here’s what we should do. Brentley’s coach is following with our things. It’ll pass this way soon. Brentley, you wait here with Miss Farnsworth. Perhaps she’ll have come to herself by then, or else the footmen can help put her inside the coach. I’ll drive Miss Cade back to Farnsworth Hall in the phaeton. She needs a surgeon’s attention, and it’s the fastest way.”

  Brentley nodded. “That makes the most sense. What about Miss Eliza?”

  “The phaeton will seat three. Miss Eliza may have her choice. Come along with her sister, or wait here with you.”

  He watched her wrestling with that devil’s choice—weighing the unpleasantness of time spent with Harry against the danger of leaving such a scoundrel alone with her sister.

  “I must go with Philippa,” she finally said, resigned.

  He’d known she would.

  They found a larger gap in the hedgerow this time, and Harry helped them up into the phaeton seat. They situated the elder Miss Cade on the outer edge, so that the rail wouldn’t bounce against her injured arm. Harry, of course, took the other side—which meant Miss Eliza must squeeze in the middle.

  Miss Eliza Cade, with her new womanly hips, her impatient blue eyes, her honeysuckle scent…and her enormous, rings-of-Saturn bonnet.

  “You’ve grown up since we last met,” he murmured, confident her sister could not hear over the noise of hoofbeats.