by Jade Lee
Radley looked from him to the altar. Damon had his pistol pointed straight at the Scot’s heart. Damn it, now Gregory would be shot. That was hardly better! Radley let out a roar and burst ahead, but the chaos was absolute. Everyone in the congregation was on his feet now. Many drew weapons, while others shrank back. And damnation, Caroline was still talking. No, she was laughing!
“You think killing me will stop the truth? Good lord, all the whores laugh about it, even the little ones—the boys too weak to fight you. Is that why you use them? Because they are small enough to make it feel tight on—”
There was more. She was relentless as she steadily pushed forward. Radley shoved ahead as well. He had to protect his sister. He had to get Wendy out of the way. He’d seen her already back on her feet and stalking toward Damon with murderous intent. And damn it, the Scot could only protect one side, and that claymore was impressive, but bad for fighting in such close quarters. Damon’s men in the pews were fouled by the people in the way, but that wouldn’t last long.
A fist came at Radley from his right, and a knife flashed on the left. He lost track of what was happening ahead as he fought in earnest. This was close-quarter battle—restricted by the pews. And to his shock, these were skilled fighting men, as used to their blades as their own arms and legs. He barely ducked a short sword before he let his fury burn into his actions. There was no holding back, not against these men. But even though he fought like a demon, he knew it was too late. There were too many skilled street fighters between him and the two women he cared most about.
And still, his sister’s voice rang loud and clear. In truth, it was the only thing that kept him grounded, though he wondered about her sanity.
“The doctors say he has frog cock. It smells like sewage, it’s green, and it croaks when you poke it.”
What the hell was she doing? Then he caught sight of a few more people. Not men heading for him, but others along the side. Bow Street men, by the look of them, keeping the street fighters away from Caroline.
It was at that moment he realized the truth. This was his plan, damn it. He had intended to taunt Damon to attack. He’d meant to be the one to gut the bastard. But apparently, the fight had shifted here. And it had put Caroline at risk as she all but begged Damon to kill her.
He couldn’t cut through the crowd fast enough. With a muffled curse, he leaped up on the back of the nearest pew. Solid wood, but it required delicate balance. Fortunately, he was a sailor used to climbing ropes in icy storms. This was as solid as open ground to him, and gave him the advantage of seeing the battle clearly.
Caroline was almost at the altar rail with the Scot standing before her, trying to protect her. But he was one man, and there were five ugly men hedging him in. The claymore held them back, but that wouldn’t last long. Bizarrely, no one had touched his sister, and now, he saw why. She wasn’t just protected by the Scot. There were others around her too. Footmen? Men who weren’t true fighters, but they were holding their own for now.
His gaze cut to the altar, where Wendy stood a half-step behind Damon, his face mottled with rage. His pistol was up, and his hands were steady as he sighted on Caroline. He didn’t have a clear shot, but apparently, that didn’t matter. Radley had a second at most. Any moment now, the men would back off the Scot, and he or Caroline would be shot through.
So Radley threw his dagger. It was a quick throw out of desperation, and it cost him as a man close managed to grab his leg. He twisted away, but suffered a slice along his thigh before a downward stroke of his sword ended the tussle. But it cost seconds, and in that time, a shot rang out.
Damon had fired.
Then the room seemed to detonate as a half-dozen shots came from all sides.
Everyone in the pews froze or cowered. Radley strained to see what had happened.
Damon was dead, but not from Radley’s dagger. His throw had been good, lodging deep in the man’s belly. It would have killed him eventually, but not immediately. No, what killed the man was a thin stiletto shoved through his neck and still held by Wendy. Or perhaps, it was the bullet hole through his face, thanks to Bernard, who now stepped out from the side vestibule. Or perhaps it was the half-dozen bullet holes riddling the man’s body without ever touching Wendy.
Radley looked around him, making sure that the people in the congregation weren’t fighting—they weren’t—before he looked to the walls of the church.
He saw Lords Crowle and Redhill, each priming a pistol. Mr. Morrison was putting his own weapon away, a grin on the thin man’s face, while an older man beside him grunted in satisfaction.
“I think that’s got things well in hand, don’t you, constable?” the runner asked.
“Sit everyone down, boys,” the constable said loudly, “while we sort things out.”
And so it was done. Everyone slowly settled into a seat—or was forcibly guided to one—while Radley stood on top of a pew and watched with slack-jawed astonishment.
The men were there. Not only the husbands of Wendy’s friends, but the constable’s men, and… He blinked as he looked at one of the men protecting Caroline’s back. “Seelye?”
The man snapped his head up. “Ah, there you are, your grace. Bloody good throw.”
What did he say to that? “Er, thank you.”
Then his eyes traveled back to Damon’s body, where Wendy now slowly stood. Blood stained her dress, and her eyes were wide, but she remained poised and quiet. Her brother had crossed to stand behind her until silence pounded from all sides.
Apparently, that was too much for the cleric, who had been cowering behind the altar. The man pushed up from behind his hiding place, his florid jowls quivering with terror.
“She did it! She brought madmen into my church! And she k-ki—”
“Killed the madman? That she did,” barked the constable as he climbed over an unconscious man and headed to the front. “Seems to me that we were all attending a wedding when suddenly, the groom orders a woman killed. Killed, and right in a church.” He glared at the assembled people. “Good thing I’m a friend of the bride here. Kept things under control, didn’t we, Miss Drew?”
Wendy opened her mouth, but the constable didn’t give her a chance. “Oh blighter, you’re not Miss Drew anymore, are you?”
Radley’s belly clenched as she paled, but she raised her gaze to his. “No, Constable,” she said in ringing tones. “I’m Mrs. Porter now, recently widowed.” Her gaze dropped to the assembled crowd. “And now, sole owner of Demon Damon’s property.”
Radley’s jaw went slack as the truth finally became clear. This hadn’t been a wedding. This had been a coup d’état! Wendy had married and then killed Damon in order to take over his businesses. And while Radley stood there gaping, Wendy leaned down and pulled her stiletto out of Damon’s neck before calmly wiping it on her gown. Then she looked at the assembled people.
“Does anyone have any problem with me stepping into my husband’s place?”
There were quiet murmurs, the shifting of feet, but no one said a word. Meanwhile, the constable nodded in approval.
“I should say not, Mrs. Porter. We all saw you wed, right and tight. We all heard him order Miss Caroline Lyncott’s murder. And you most helpfully dispatched the villain. I, for one, thank you for your service and would like you to call on me should you or your brother need my assistance.”
Mr. Morrison stepped forward and gave her an elegant bow. “Bow Street at your service, ma’am.”
Lords Crowle and Redhill were in the process of tucking away their pistols, but they waved cheerily from opposite sides of the church. “Seems like a capital idea,” said one. The other grinned his agreement.
Then Lord Hartfell tucked Caroline close to his side. He didn’t speak, but she did. “You saved his life, Wendy. I cannot thank you enough.”
Then it was one statement after another, first from the bawds, then from the less savory men who had been scowling in the pews. They voiced their support of her, while she no
dded like a queen in her bloody gown, taking their vows of loyalty—for that’s what they were—as her due.
Then everyone was silent, even the sniveling priest, while Wendy turned her gaze to Radley. She didn’t speak, and neither did he. Radley was still struggling to absorb everything that had happened. Last night she had said she loved him. She had opened her body and her heart, and he had done the same. They had talked about their children, for God’s sake. And yet, not twelve hours later, she was another man’s widow and owner of half of Soho.
And into the silence, his sister crossed to his side and tugged on his trousers. “Do come down, Radley. It’s really not done, standing on the pews.”
“It’s really not done, inciting a riot in one either.”
She waved an airy hand. “Everything I said was the truth.”
He gaped at her, but then caught the flash of blonde hair tucked neatly beneath a hooded cape. It was another woman, slender and composed, as she sat next to Seelye. “Eleanor!”
She flipped the hood back, her eyes shining. “Yes, your grace?”
“What…? Why are you here?”
“She asked me.” She waved at Wendy. “She asked me to witness this, so I could tell the ton. And I have to tell you, she’s magnificent. I thought she was beneath you. I thought she was beneath us all, but Radley, don’t you see? She’s a bloody Borgia! My God, she fits the dukedom better than anyone I’ve ever seen!”
He blinked, staring at his cousin in shock. “You called her a thief. You hate her.”
“Not anymore. Do you know what kind of money she will bring to the dukedom? And if you thought a little murder would put me off, then you have not read our family history. Really, Radley, I have asked you to read those diaries. Did you think they were made-up stories?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. And so, he turned to the woman he loved. She remained poised at the front of the church, her hands tucked neatly together, the bloody stiletto now in her brother’s hands.
“Wendy,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She swallowed. “You’d have stopped me. You never would have let me marry him.”
Too bloody right. “But—”
“A good bargain is equal on both sides,” she said loudly. “I’ve said that before, and you’ve agreed.”
“Yes. But what does that—”
“You’re a duke, Radley. I’m a nobody seamstress.”
He practically rolled his eyes. “This is not the act of a nobody. This is—”
“Balance. I’ve ended the threat. And now, I have something to offer. I have money. Property and businesses.”
“You already have a business,” he said. That wasn’t what he meant to say. He meant to point out that taking ownership and keeping it were entirely different things. But he couldn’t get those words out, though she must have understood because she answered his unspoken worry.
“Bernard will run the business,” she said. “He knows a great deal more than you think. And besides, I now have friends who will help.”
Morrison waved a hand. The constable grunted as he tugged on his coat lapels. “She means to keep things honest, your grace, and I mean to help her. Me and my men.”
He didn’t need to see the other lords nod their agreement to know that should Wendy need it, she had a great deal of aid. Meanwhile, she stepped forward, picking her way carefully past Damon’s body before coming down the aisle. He leaped down from his perch when she was halfway there. He had no interest in towering over her. He wanted to know that she was safe. And that she…
“I have all this now,” she said softly, when she came within arm’s reach. “And I want to give it to you.” She lifted her chin. “I want to marry you, Radley, but I had to make the bargain equal.”
He shook his head. “It was equal. It is equal, Wendy. I don’t want this. I just want you.”
She nodded, as if she had expected those words. “You need to know.” She took the edges of her skirt and spread them, making the bloodstains on the white so clear. “This is me, Radley. I’m not the pure woman you’ve drawn in your books. I’m not a frightened seamstress afraid of a demon. And I’m not the wind to your sails. I’m just me.” She shrugged. “Bloodstains and all. Just me.”
He stepped forward, touching her face. “And I love you. I always have.”
She shuddered, her eyes closing as she wavered on her feet. He grabbed her, afraid that she would fall, but she’d already steadied herself. “I love you, Radley. Are you sure—”
“I have never been more sure of anything. You amaze me, woman. I am in awe. And I love you.”
He kissed her then. Deep and purposeful, he possessed her mouth, wrapping his arms around her, while she surrendered. The church erupted into cheers, but he barely heard it. All he wanted was this woman, right now.
Eventually, she pulled back. Eventually, the cheers quieted. And then he heard his cousin shushing everyone. He frowned.
“Eleanor?”
“Finally!” she huffed. Then she dropped her hands on her hips. “Are you finished kissing?”
Not really, but he wasn’t going to quibble. Not when she was gesturing to someone at the side vestibule. A moment later, an elderly man stepped out wearing ecclesiastical robes. He grimaced as he looked about him, horror and disapproval in every line of his face. But he walked steadily forward until he faced Eleanor.
“Lady Eleanor,” he began, his tone stiff with anger. Which was when, apparently, Wendy recognized the man.
“The Archbishop of Canterbury!”
Good God, it couldn’t be! But Lady Eleanor pulled out a piece of paper, briefly showing it to all assembled.
“A special license to wed. Right now. Right here.”
“What?” Radley exploded.
Then there was a touch on his arm and a whispered voice. It was Bernard, his words low, but the meaning clear.
“It’s a show of strength, your grace. It won’t be easy to hold things together, even with everyone here. But with your wedding happening over Damon’s corpse, officiated by the archbishop himself…”
Radley didn’t need him to finish. He understood the symbolism of what they were doing. After all, it wasn’t just sailors who were superstitious. And having the Archbishop of Canterbury here was like bringing God into Soho.
He shook his head. “How did you manage this?”
Wendy frowned. “This was your idea. Every piece of it.” She gestured around. “I only shifted the location. After I married—”
“This next part—” interrupted Lady Eleanor. “That was my idea. As was bringing Seelye and the footmen. Now, it’s time, cousin. Will you have her?”
He laughed, suddenly feeling as if he’d found his land legs. They put him right where he belonged—at Wendy’s side. So he laughed, as he scooped her up in his arms. Everyone parted as he strode forward, and the poor archbishop had to rush to get to the altar.
“I thought I’d miss the sea,” he said as he finally set down his bride, “but I believe you are as challenging a mistress as she ever could be.”
Wendy gave him a soft smile. “You want this, Radley? Truly want—”
He touched her cheek. “Every sailor’s dream is to marry the wind.”
“I love you,” she said.
“And I love you.”
And then—ten minutes later—they said, “I do.”
Read on for a peek at an original novella from USA Today bestselling author Jade Lee
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The Groom’s Gamble
“Breathe deeply, Lady Anne. Relax your mind. Let me see through you to the Great Beyond.” The words were sonorous, the intonation mesmerizing. Caroline Lyncott would have been caught just by his tone—if the man didn’t have duck feathers dangling from his ears.
Caroline pulled back from her hiding place behind the door frame. His lordship would have a fit if he knew what was happening here. Lord Hartfell and Lady Anne were brother and sister
, but a more opposite pair could not be found. Whereas he was a man of science, his sister was fascinated by all things occult—and most specifically, by the gypsy with the waterfowl accoutrements.
If nothing else, Caroline thought with a smile, the view was intriguing. Somewhat like watching a monkey colony at the zoological gardens. In the center sat a handsome, dark-haired man with kind eyes and hands that moved too quickly for the eye to catch. Made her wonder what he hid up his sleeves. Lady Anne sat before him in a muskrat cap. Caroline narrowed her eyes. Unless that was a beaver hat. Hard to tell from this distance. Then, in a circle around them, sat the preening biddies, seven members of the aristocracy with an interest in the occult, plus all the servants peering in from the door.
The only question now was whether she stood as part of the colony or as a curious human visitor. She was still pondering the question when the butler, Mr. McTavish, crowded in. “Flimflam and folderol,” he muttered. “If his lordship were home, he’d put a stop to this right quick. Just how much is that gypsy fleecing my lady for?”
Caroline smiled and tried to take a compromising tone. As housekeeper here, it was her job to soften the jeers of the outspoken male before he could clash too loudly with the female staff and disturb the main attraction in the parlor. She was used to the task. This wasn’t the first time his lordship’s scientific attitudes and her ladyship’s esoteric studies had collided in one way or another. Sure enough, before she could say anything, Lady Anne’s maid, Marta, spoke up, her voice tight with anger. “The gypsies have powers—always have. And who’s to say how a body grieves their loved ones? If he can give her peace—”
“By emptying her wallet?” Mr. McTavish interrupted.
“By speaking with her dead sister,” the maid shot back, “and you’ve no cause to criticize.”
Mr. McTavish opened his mouth, ready to lambaste the girl where she stood. But Caroline stepped between the pair. “His name is Stefan Pike, and he’s only charging a guinea,” she said. “Lady Anne can afford it.”