by Darcy Burke
His muscles tensed as he snatched the walking stick from his valet. Steady. He was not going to fall. He would not humiliate himself. No one was going to laugh at him.
He’d survived war. Surely he could survive a marriage ceremony.
Particularly since it wasn’t his.
He pushed out the front door and clapped a hand over his hat when an icy burst of wind threatened to whisk it away.
The tiger leapt from the coach and rushed forward. The arm he held out was tentative, as if he wasn’t certain whether the major was more likely to require his assistance or crack him on the head with his walking stick for trying.
Bartholomew refrained from both courses of action. He’d had enough of violence. But he would go to the devil before his damnable pride permitted him to clutch a schoolboy’s arm like a feeble old woman.
He kept his head back, rather than gaze out the window at the London streets as they rolled along. Not because he didn’t care, but because he missed it terribly. London wasn’t his world anymore. His reign had ended.
For the hundredth time, he found himself thinking about Daphne. He supposed her guardian had packed her off to London by now. Was she enjoying her stay with the duke’s cousin?
A smile flitted on his lips. She must be having a fine time. How could anyone fail to be impressed by London’s breadth and opportunities? Especially Daphne. Whatever charity work she could accomplish from Kent, she could do here sevenfold. Perhaps she would fall in love with the city and wish to stay. His heart warmed.
The landau pulled up at the church a half an hour early. As much as Bartholomew had dreaded these few hours, arriving early was the lesser evil to arriving late and making a further spectacle of himself.
If he was lucky, perhaps he could find an unobtrusive seat in the back before any other guests arrived and enquired about his prosthesis or its quaint little clacking sound.
As luck would have it, he was not the first inside the church. He cringed. No matter how softly he tried to walk, he could not hide the telltale clicking. He rolled his shoulders back and pretended not to care.
Oliver, the groom, was pacing beneath a stained-glass window. Another friend, Xavier Grey, was the sole occupant of the furthest pew. No sign of the bride or the clergyman.
Bartholomew made his way to Oliver first.
Delight lit the earl’s warm brown eyes. “You came!”
“Of course I came,” Bartholomew grumbled. “That’ll teach you to invite me. Congratulations on your new countess.”
Oliver beamed at him. “I can’t wait for you to meet Grace. You’ll love her.”
“I’m sure I will.” Bartholomew lifted his chin toward the rear of the church where Xavier sat. “Is he…”
“Xavier again?” Oliver’s grin faltered. “He’s mobile. And verbal. But I don’t know if we’ll ever truly get him back. Some days are better than others.”
Bartholomew nodded his understanding. The war had changed Xavier. Had marked them all. He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your pacing.”
Oliver flashed an embarrassed smile. “Thank you. This section of the floor was far too clean. I was… giving it some character.”
Bartholomew’s lips quirked. Oliver looked positively terrified. The poor sod. Marriage must be terrifying. Bartholomew was fortunate his betrothal was a sham. And a secret. His friends would never let him live down the infamy.
He made his way to the back of the church and slid into the pew next to Xavier.
Captain Xavier Grey had returned from war whole… in body only. The rest of him had been trapped deep inside his mind, somewhere even his best friends couldn’t rescue him. Slowly, he’d become more aware of the world around him. Bartholomew hoped he’d stay.
He didn’t share this thought with Xavier, of course. It wasn’t done. The same way Oliver hadn’t asked after Bartholomew’s missing leg, or how the grieving process was coming along. The same way Bartholomew had refrained from enquiring what the devil Oliver had been thinking to kiss a young lady in a library that was not his own.
Oliver was usually the hero, not the villain. For him to succumb to passion in such a way meant the lady was very important indeed. And for him to be so charmingly nervous at his own wedding meant he had fallen in love at last.
Good for Oliver. He deserved to find happiness.
Bartholomew ignored a pang of envy. He was pleased to see Xavier alert and present. He, too, deserved happiness. Xavier might not be ready for courting, but Bartholomew could at least give him friendship.
He used his walking stick to gesture toward Xavier’s midsection. “Hideous waistcoat.”
Xavier nodded. “What happened to your neck? Get tangled in a bed sheet?”
“Mm. Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Going to show off your distinctive fashion sense at the Grenville musicale tomorrow?”
“I wasn’t asked.” Bartholomew paused. “Or perhaps I burned the invitation.”
“I’ll send you mine. I get invited to everything.” Xavier consulted his pocket watch. “I’m retiring to Chelmsford.”
“For a while?”
“Permanently.”
Bartholomew’s gut hollowed. Now that he was finally out of the house, he realized how badly he had missed his friends. And they were all moving on with their lives. “When?”
“Soon as I can. Oliver’s forcing me to attend an opera with him first. Wife’s orders.” Xavier rolled his eyes toward the pacing groom. “Not surprised he was the first to fall.”
“We’re too smart for that,” he agreed. Or too damaged. Bartholomew had lost part of his leg on the battlefield, but Xavier had lost part of his soul.
The door eased open and a round woman in a thick black coat slipped into the church.
“Sarah.” Xavier sprang up and stared. “She looks so…”
“Pregnant?” Bartholomew finished wryly. He, too, could scarcely believe the transformation. “That cloak might disguise her face, but it’s doing nothing to hide her belly.”
“Even the bed sheet around your neck couldn’t hide that belly.”
“Could strangle you, though.” Bartholomew watched from the back of the church as Sarah waddled over to hug Oliver. “Could probably cut you, given its current cloth-to-starch ratio.”
“And mop up spilled blood all in one go,” Xavier said approvingly. “Well done. That much fabric could even double as a sail, should you need to escape by sea.”
“Your waistcoat could double as fool’s treasure,” Bartholomew shot back. He tugged a quizzing glass from his pocket and peered at Xavier’s tailoring. “What are the shiny flecks? Glass?”
“Paste. The very finest. I’ll sell it to you for ten quid.”
“For that monstrosity?” Bartholomew choked. “Not even if the ugly bits were diamonds. I’m hemorrhaging self-respect just by standing next to you. Do you have a valet?”
“Don’t require one. I’m retiring to Chelmsford, remember?”
Before Bartholomew could respond, Sarah turned from Oliver and plodded down the aisle toward Xavier and Bartholomew.
His good humor vanished as she approached, leaving his gut filled with guilt and pain. He hadn’t seen his brother’s fiancée since returning from battle. By the time the surgeon had pronounced Bartholomew well enough to receive visitors, she had already confined herself in her parents’ house for fear of being seen.
That she was here today either meant she was confident her disguise would protect her long enough to attend a friend’s wedding… or that she no longer cared what the ton thought and had resigned herself to a life on the margins.
“Sarah…” He swallowed. He’d meant to say more than just her name, meant to tell her he would’ve happily traded his own life if it could have saved Edmund’s. But his voice had broken on the very first word, and now Bartholomew could say nothing at all.
“I wish I could say it was good to see you.” Her voice was low, her eyes tired and red. “But you loo
k exactly like Edmund. You always did. And it’s…” She jerked her face toward the vaulted ceiling and blinked far too rapidly for several seconds before returning her gaze to Bartholomew. “It’s hard. Terribly hard. You’re the only one who knows how I feel.”
He nodded, but of course it wasn’t the same at all. He hadn’t simply lost his twin brother, the mirror image of his soul. He’d failed to save him, which was altogether worse. He’d ruined his parents’ lives, and Sarah’s, and the unborn babe’s.
He was the twin who should have died. But he didn’t. And here they were.
Sarah leaned around him to buss Xavier on the cheek, then sat down on the pew. She bunched up her cloak several different ways before finding the perfect width of cloth between the small of her back and the hard wood of the pew. Then she turned back to Bartholomew. “Well? Out with it.”
He blinked back at her in confusion.
Out with what? That he’d drown in guilt and sorrow the rest of his life because of his mistakes? That he could have killed Oliver for rescuing him, and then very nearly killed himself with whisky and laudanum? That it still took all his strength, every day, to find a reason to get out of bed, much less keep pushing himself to stretch and exercise a lopsided body that would never be perfect again?
Until he’d received Daphne’s entreaty, he’d had no such reason, other than his own stubbornness. Now, at least, he could say he’d done one good thing since returning from war. No one would know about it, but that was fine. He was no hero.
His gaze lowered to Sarah’s belly. He was going to be one hell of an uncle, though. He had to make up for everything the baby had lost.
His lips curved. “Have you picked a name?”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about you. When on earth did you get betrothed to little Daphne Vaughan?”
His throat went dry. The news was out? How? When? He tried to calm his racing heart. The first banns had been read in Maidstone, not London. For obvious reasons they hadn’t wanted to announce their faux engagement to the whole city, so Maidstone was the only choice. Which left what?
“How did you find out?” he demanded hoarsely.
Her brow creased. “The newspaper, of course. I’ve nothing better to do than read such things from front to back. Bit of luck, since your announcement was last.”
Announcement. He covered his face with his hands. Of course a pirate would never take a man at his word. That rat! Wasn’t a marriage contract enough? Steele must have put that notice in the paper for the same reason he canceled his trip. He trusted no one. Not even a war hero and a vicar’s daughter.
Not that he was wrong.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Bartholomew managed, then turned to face Xavier. “You either. Understand?”
Xavier blinked back at him slowly. “Hmm?”
“What on earth?” Sarah laughed and shook her head. “Why shouldn’t we speak of a union that’s already been printed in the newspaper?”
He took a deep breath. Sarah was part of his family and would never betray a secret. “Because it’s a lie. Daph and I are pretending to be betrothed so her guardian doesn’t force her to marry someone else. We need him to believe it for another month. Just until Daphne reaches her majority.”
Sarah’s smile faded. “If a signed contract isn’t proof of intent, a mere announcement won’t prove anything either. What are you two doing to convince him that you’re a couple in love?”
Doing? Absolutely nothing. Bartholomew’s mind raced. They weren’t in love. They were strangers.
“Bloody hell.” His fingers tightened their grip on his walking stick. “I have to find her.”
Find her and court her. Publicly, at least. Until her birthday. He hadn’t come this far just to let her down now.
“After the wedding,” Sarah whispered, and patted him on the leg. “Here comes the bride.”
Bartholomew grimaced. For his rescue to work, they needed to convince Captain Steele their matrimony was imminent. For that to happen, London would have to believe it. Whatever the gossips believed, the world believed. His stomach bottomed. Such a feat would take a lot more than just declaring it publicly.
For the next few weeks, he and Daphne would have to be the most besotted couple in England.
TWELVE
Daphne gazed at her sumptuous guest chamber in dismay. It looked like a museum. Knowing Katherine, its contents had likely come from one.
Every horizontal surface was glossy and dust-free… and covered with dozens of priceless antiquities from all over the world. Even the escritoire in the corner had more decorations than writing space. There would be no room for Daphne’s towers of documentation here.
Not even on the walls. The wallpaper was pristine and colorful, the wainscoting spotless and shiny. Blast. She couldn’t possibly affix clippings to such beautiful paper. She turned in a slow circle, frustrated.
Centered in the furthest wall of the chamber, there was even a little balcony overlooking the park.
But there was nowhere for Daphne’s things.
Her fingers clenched. She wouldn’t have come to London at all, if her guardian hadn’t forced her. But now that she was here, how was she supposed to work? She’d brought the smallest trunk of correspondence she could, and still there was nowhere to put it, other than a dark little corner of the dressing room.
Untenable.
“What splendid living quarters,” her lady’s maid breathed in awe. Until today, the finest rooms Esther had seen were in the vicarage. Katherine’s town house looked like a palace. Esther clapped her hands in delight. “I feel like I’m in a dream.”
Daphne wrinkled her upper lip. “Quite.”
“Thank you!” Katherine beamed at them both. “It took years to collect just the right pieces to create the effect I wanted. The other guest chamber is rather rococo, but I much prefer this look, don’t you? Early baroque was so much richer.”
“Indeed.” Daphne tried for a smile. Katherine had received her at a moment’s notice, had been inviting her for years, and the last thing she deserved was a churlish friend with her nose put out because the accommodations were grand. “Thank you for everything.”
“’Tis my pleasure.” Katherine glanced down the corridor. “Why, look. Here comes Aunt Havens. How do you do, Aunt?”
This time, Daphne’s smile was genuine. Katherine’s great-aunt was marvelous. Daphne stood a little straighter and motioned for Esther to do the same.
A sprightly older lady with bright blue eyes and powdered hair poked her head about the corner. “Guests! I adore guests! Who’s come to visit, Kate?”
Katherine led her great-aunt forward gently. “Come and meet my dear friend Daphne Vaughan. She lives in Maidstone. Do you remember Maidstone?”
“All Saints Church! I was there just the other day. Darling people.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “That’s where I met my husband, you know.”
Daphne did know. That was how they had met. Katherine’s great-aunt had been the wife of the previous vicar. Daphne’s father had taken over when he got too old, and had later presided over his funeral. Sadness filled her chest. They had both lost the most important man in their lives.
The year after her husband passed, Mrs. Havens had gone to London to chaperone Katherine during her come-out. Katherine lost her parents shortly after, and she and her great-aunt decided to stay on as each other’s companions. Katherine was too young to respectably live alone, and her great-aunt’s memory problems were becoming too frequent to ignore.
Not that Mrs. Havens noticed a lapse. Senility was both a blessing and a curse.
Daphne dipped a curtsey. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Next time you’re in Maidstone, you must stop for tea.”
“I would love that, child.” Mrs. Havens frowned and glanced over both of her shoulders. “Where did the dog go?”
Katherine’s eyes widened. “I don’t know, Aunt. Shall I look for him?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Havens chided her. “You must chat with your friend. The dog is no doubt hiding under my bed again. I’ll coax him out.”
“As you please, Aunt.” Katherine shook her head as her great-aunt hurried away. She lowered her voice. “If she finds him, I’m hiding ’neath the closest bed. This house hasn’t had a dog in ten years.”
Daphne grinned back at her. “If a phantom canine appears, I’ll join you under the bed.”
Katherine laughed. “Thank you so much for letting her introduce herself again. She remembers the past better than I remember what I ate for breakfast, but the day-to-day is far more slippery.”
“I adore your aunt,” Daphne assured her. She would give anything to have an aunt half as sweet-natured. To have any family at all.
Mrs. Havens was one of the kindest women Daphne had ever met. ’Twas no hardship at all to repay that kindness however she could.
The Havens family had been legendary in Maidstone for their warmth and dedication to the community. Daphne’s father had often said his greatest challenge was living up to the previous vicar’s example, and that he hoped Daphne would do the same. She had spent her life trying to fulfill that promise. To earn his love. To be important to someone.
Katherine touched her fingers to Daphne’s arm. “Are you certain you shouldn’t like something to eat? If you’re too weary for the dining room, ’tis of no trouble to have a tray brought here to your chambers.”
“No, thank you.” Daphne had dined at a posting house during her journey, and wanted nothing more than to get back to her projects. Somehow. “May I use that escritoire?”
“Absolutely. Please, make yourself at home. Adjust the room to your needs. I have some correspondence to attend to, so I shan’t be bothering you. A benefactress’s work is never done.” Katherine rolled her eyes, as if she found correspondence a chore. “Don’t hesitate to ring for service if you need anything at all.”
Adjust the room to her needs? Daphne smiled. “I will.”
The moment Katherine disappeared down the hallway, Daphne shut the door behind her. Esther was already unpacking Daphne’s clothes from the first trunk and arranging them in the wardrobe.