Newport: A Novel

by Jill Morrow

  “Sure.” Jim shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Then let’s go down to face the lions, my friend.” Adrian clapped a hand on his associate’s shoulder and propelled them both toward the door.

  The flower arrangements began in the foyer, where roses of yellow and red spilled from vases of all shapes and sizes.

  “Jeez,” Jim murmured as his foot left the last step. “There are enough flowers here for a funeral.”

  “The analogy is not entirely inappropriate,” Adrian replied, snapping a small rosebud from an overstuffed vase. “The late Mrs. Chapman should feel quite at home.”

  Mention of Elizabeth Chapman brought other thoughts to mind. Jim cleared his throat. “I’d like to check on Amy if you don’t mind.”

  “I was hoping you’d offer.” Adrian slipped the stem of the rosebud through his lapel buttonhole. “I’ve matters of my own to manage this evening.”

  “Manage fast. Here comes Lady Dinwoodie and, as usual, she has eyes only for you.”

  Indeed, Chloe came bearing down on them from the back of the house like a miniature tank, her feathered headdress mirroring the reds and yellows of the roses so perfectly that they could only have been dyed to match. “Mr. de la Noye!” she cooed, and the sway in her step left little doubt that she’d spent much of the afternoon tippling. “D’you like the flowers? Catharine wasn’t planning to have any, but if we’re going to endure a wedding ceremony, we might as well do the damn thing right, don’t you think? I ordered them. At least we’ll have a bit of festivity here before either Nicky sends everyone to jail or Little Miss Gold Digger takes Pop for everything he’s got.”

  Jim slipped into the parlor before he could hear Adrian’s response, but he knew it didn’t matter. They couldn’t afford for him to ride shotgun anymore. It was time to move from behind Adrian’s shadow and operate according to his own instincts.

  Someone—probably Chloe—had arranged the parlor sofa and chairs into a long row with an aisle in between. That made little sense since only five guests would witness the ceremony, but if it kept Lady Dinwoodie happy and quiet, then Jim was all for it.

  Amy sat on the sofa to the left of the aisle, facing a podium set near the far right-hand wall. Her head was bowed, but hardly in supplication. Based on her flushed profile and the stiffness of her neck, Jim would have bet the farm that nothing even close to prayer raced through that blond head at the moment.

  His nose itched. This room had not escaped the invasion of the roses. They flanked the podium in two determined clumps, daring anyone to object to their presence. Another bouquet sat in a vase on the floor behind the sofa. Jim figured he’d have to move that batch lest the entire marriage ceremony be punctuated by sneezes and honks.

  He grabbed for his handkerchief just in time to catch his sneeze.

  Amy turned around. “Oh,” she said, “you’ve come back.”

  It was as good a reaction as any. He walked around to the front of the sofa to face her. “You look down in the dumps,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  She slumped further in her seat. “How can I be all right, Jim? I’m attending the wedding of a woman I always assumed was my aunt, but recently discovered is my mother. I still don’t know who my father is. And I’m about to speak for the dead first wife of the groom, a man old enough to be the bride’s grandfather.”

  Jim nodded. “The situation is hardly copacetic.”

  “There’s more.”

  “How can there be?”

  Her brows lowered, but she didn’t turn away. “I think I’m falling in love. Who the heck needs a complication like that?”

  His handkerchief stopped halfway back to his pocket. So much for the yo-yoing question of what to do with Miss Amy Walsh. When on earth had she found time to fit anyone else into her schedule?

  “Oh,” he said, aiming for indifference. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Men never do,” she said darkly.

  Not that he gave a fig about the cherub on the sofa . . . but would it always be his lot in life to serve as the pal, the trustworthy guy a girl could count on for sound advice and a strong shoulder? And could Amy’s timing be any worse? There were already enough tangles in the current situation to trip up a tightrope walker. Still, she looked so small and miserable nestled in the corner curve of the sofa that there was no way he could walk away.

  “Oh, all right,” he said with a sigh. “We have a few minutes before chaos descends. Did you want to tell me about it?”

  Those big eyes would be his undoing. Fortunately, the flowers made him sneeze again as he settled beside her, and the action tore his gaze from hers.

  “You may not be the right person to tell,” she said.

  “I’m always the right person to tell.”

  “This happens to you frequently?”

  “Constantly. I’m everybody’s choice.” Another sneeze ripped through him.

  She looked puzzled.

  There wasn’t much time for this, and Amy would need to be as focused as possible if Mrs. C was going to come through clearly. “So, what’s the problem?” Jim prodded. “Doesn’t the fellow like you back?”

  “You tell me,” she said. “Since you’re the fellow in question.”

  He stared at her as if she’d spouted quantum theory. “I am?”

  “Who did you think it was, you idiot?” She scowled. “Falling in love with you is the last thing I need right now, but there doesn’t seem to be a thing I can do to stop it.”

  His nose began to itch again. “Excuse me,” he said, leaping to his feet. With renewed vigor, he transported the hateful vase of roses from behind the sofa to the opposite end of the room. Then he returned to Amy’s side. “Would you say it again for me, please? Slowly enough that I can understand?”

  “Why? I thought you were everybody’s choice.”

  He draped his left arm around her shoulders and drew her toward him. Then he kissed her, not even pausing to wonder whether or not it was a good idea. The kiss she gave in return made it clear that there’d never been any reason to worry in the first place.

  “Fine time for this to happen,” Amy whispered as they parted.

  “It could be a very fine time indeed.” Jim kept her close. “I’m willing to give it a whirl if you are.” He leaned toward her mouth, but she stopped him with an insistent hand flat against his chest.

  “I’ve a favor to ask,” she said.

  “I knew there was a catch.”

  “Don’t think ill of me, Jim. It’s all right if you say no. But, God willing, this will be the last time I speak for Mrs. Chapman—and believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to keep her from taking over. But if I can’t do it, I need you to ask her something on my behalf. I want to know who my father is.”

  “Perhaps it’s your mother who needs asking.”

  “I . . . I haven’t really spoken to Catharine since learning the truth. I’m not sure I trust her anymore.”

  He covered her hand with his own. “You’ve got to repair that, Amy. Like it or not, Catharine Walsh took care of you, raised you, loved you. And you loved her back. You can’t just discard people like that, especially when you don’t know the reasons behind their actions. Aren’t you the lady who said that very same thing to me where Adrian was concerned?”

  She sank against him. “Skewered by my own words. I’ll think about it. But, please, Jim—for my sake, if I can’t do it, ask Mrs. Chapman about my father.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Promise? Even if there’s a chance her answer might place Mr. de la Noye in a delicate position?”

  Jim briefly considered everything he knew about Adrian. “I think he would want to know.”

  This kiss was even nicer than the ones before, and Jim would have forgotten his surroundings entirely were it not for the quiet “ahem” he thought he heard from somewhere far away. With difficulty, he disengaged himself from Amy’s arms and glanced over his shoulder. Adrian stood behind the sofa, accompanied by a sh
ort, round gentleman of perhaps seventy.

  “Judge Thomas Bourne”—Adrian spoke as if he’d just interrupted a friendly game of cards—“allow me to introduce my associate, Mr. James Reid. And this young lady is Miss Amy Walsh, daughter of the bride.”

  Jim scrambled to his feet, dragging Amy up along with him. “Pleasure to meet you, Your Honor,” he said, pumping the judge’s proffered hand a little harder than necessary. “And I do apologize for our . . . uh . . .”

  “. . . youthful indiscretion?” the judge supplied, but anything else he might have said disappeared as Bennett Chapman entered the room, flanked by his son and daughter.

  CHAPTER

  42

  Tom Bourne!” Bennett boomed, striding into the room. The walking stick in his hand served as little more than an accessory now. “So good to see you again! I believe you’ve met my son, Nicholas . . . my daughter, Chloe . . . we’ll talk more during supper, but for now, Tom, let me take you to meet my bride.” He leveled first his daughter, then his son with a stare that dared them to protest. “We’ll begin the wedding ceremony as soon as possible,” he said, drawing out each word long beyond its natural length. “I find I’m more eager by the minute to once again embrace the blessed state of matrimony.”

  “Yes,” Nicholas said beneath his breath as his father and the judge left the room. “Go right ahead and speed things along, you old goat. The sooner we begin, the sooner we can end.” He grimaced at the ceremonial arrangement of sofa and chairs. “Oh, dear God. Whose harebrained idea was it to set up the room like a bloody church?”

  “Mine,” Chloe said brightly. “I thought it might make Mother happy.”

  Her brother’s gaze followed her as she reached beneath the hem of her dress for her flask. “You need to stop drinking, Chloe,” he said. “It’s getting too hard to tell if your actions are the result of alcohol or stupidity.”

  “Oh, Nicky, can’t you simply get along for a change?” She tilted her head back to take a quick swig. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask Mother about it when she comes through today.”

  Nicholas turned away abruptly, seating himself in the first chair to the right of the aisle. “Mr. de la Noye, I suppose it’s useless to ask if you’ve changed your mind. Will you let the current will stand due to my father’s lunacy or must we drag through this ludicrous charade before reaching the same conclusion anyway?”

  Adrian approached the sofa, reaching for his pocket watch along the way. “I will continue to stand by my client’s sanity.”

  Nicholas’s hand landed on his forearm, stopping him flat. Surprised, Adrian looked down to meet his gaze.

  “The groom may be your client,” Nicholas said, “but I won’t be surprised if you choose to sit on the bride’s side of the aisle.” The coldness of his fingers underlined the chill in his voice.

  Adrian took a long moment to check the time on his watch before pushing the offending hand away. “Thank you for the suggestion,” he said.

  “What is it with you, Mr. de la Noye?” Nicholas asked softly. “Are you really so impervious as to think you’ll escape this fiasco unharmed?”

  Adrian considered. “No, Mr. Chapman. Not impervious at all. Just willing to take my chances.”

  Bennett’s voice carried into the parlor from the foyer. “Catharine! You look ravishing, my dear. Judge Bourne, my intended, Miss Catharine Walsh.”

  “Uh-oh.” Chloe steadied herself with a shaky hand on the back of her brother’s chair. “We should have stopped him. It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Nicholas reached up and pulled her into the seat to his right.

  “I’m just repeating what people say.” Chloe landed with a plop. “It’s supposed to be a bad omen . . . although I think every wedding is a bad omen, whether or not the bride and groom have seen each other beforehand. Good grief, though. Even a blind person would have to admit that Pop looks better than ever. And I’m sure that Catharine—perhaps I should begin calling her ‘Mother’—is ridiculously radiant.”

  “You’re babbling, Chloe,” Nicholas said. “Of course it’s a bad omen. This whole marriage is doomed. Has anyone bothered to explain the guest list to Judge Bourne? Does he know yet that this wedding will be attended by its deceased matchmaker?”

  “We’ll leave that little detail to you, Mr. Chapman,” Adrian said as he sat down on the sofa.

  “Oh, don’t make it quite this easy, Mr. de la Noye. You’ll take away the sport of it.”

  Adrian smiled politely. “Please accept my apologies,” he said, glancing toward the parlor door.

  He shouldn’t have. Catharine Walsh stood in the doorway, an ethereal vision in an ivory drop-waist dress that fell in a jagged hemline below her knees. Her hair framed her face in wild tendrils, setting off the intricate seed-pearl headdress she wore and making her eyes look even darker than usual. She held a bouquet of red and yellow roses with both hands. Bennett Chapman appeared by her side, finely dressed in a well-cut dinner jacket, one hand resting against his fiancée’s hip in a proprietary fashion that made Adrian’s jaw clench.

  Nobody else in the room could possibly sense the conflict behind the regal lift of her chin. No one would guess that she felt as anxious and vulnerable as a lioness outnumbered by her hunters. But Adrian knew. Her desperation raced through his own veins, calling to him so loudly that he wondered why no one else could hear it.

  He’d saved her from such rashness before. Would it really be so difficult to save her again? He started to rise, desperate to assure Cassie Walsh that there was no need to sacrifice herself in a marriage she didn’t want.

  Jim stopped him with an iron grip around his wrist. “Sit down,” he whispered, eyes straight ahead. “It’s her wedding, and you’re not the groom . . . at least, not this time.”

  Adrian froze.

  Jim readjusted his spectacles with a small, smug smile. “Again, Mr. de la Noye: I’m not as green as you think.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  February 1898

  I suspect we’ve cooked our own goose.” Cassie frowned out the window of the brougham as it slowed before the bride’s home. “Really, Adrian, nobody will want anything to do with us now that we’ve managed to miss the wedding ceremony. Perhaps it would be best to turn around right now and miss the luncheon as well.”

  Adrian attempted to look remorseful, but it was an impossible task. Even though she sat demurely clothed beside him, every inch of Cassie revived memories of pleasure. Her gloved hands rested neatly in her lap as the carriage rolled to a stop, but that did not block the recollection of her fingertips sliding down his body as he gathered her close beneath the sheets. Her wild curls had been tamed into a modest chignon, but he didn’t even need to close his eyes to see her thick hair cascading across the pillow as he poised himself above her. And how could he forget that her lips, although pursed at the moment, offered so much more than words alone?

  He moved close enough to inhale the bewitching fragrance of her skin. “That’s a tempting thought,” he whispered into her perfect ear. “It would please me beyond measure to miss the luncheon. More than anything, Cassie, I want to go back to the cottage and take you to bed. But my friends would swarm the place in concern, and no good could come of that.”

  She planted a kiss on his cheek, not even pulling away when the coachman opened the carriage door. “We’ll have to attend to your druthers later, then, Adrian Delano,” she murmured, and he wasn’t sure whether it was her words or her touch that caused the delicious waves that rippled through him.

  “Look,” she said, nodding toward the house as the coachman handed her down from the carriage. “Peter Phillips is perched on the windowsill, just waiting for us to arrive.” Sure enough, Peter burst through the front door of the comfortable home, a glass of champagne punch in one hand, forehead creased in a vexed frown.

  Adrian alighted beside her. “It isn’t ‘us’ he cares about, my dear. He couldn’t ca
re less about me. It’s Kate Weld he wants.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  He caught the slight quaver in her voice. “Whatever were you thinking when you started this, Cassie?” he asked gently. “No, don’t answer. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  She had no time to reply, but the trusting squeeze of her fingers as she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm spoke loudly enough to straighten his spine.

  Peter met them halfway up the walk, his florid face more flushed than usual above his stiff white collar.

  “Kate! Where have you been?” Fumes of champagne punch mingled with the bay rum of his cologne as he pried Cassie’s hand from Adrian’s arm and eased it into his own. She steadied him mid-sway. Undeterred, he led her toward the house, maneuvering the path as if it were the rolling deck of a ship.

  “I’m so sorry we’re late.” Cassie planted herself in the walkway. “Was the wedding quite lovely?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said, and the words were rimmed with fretful accusation. “I spent most of it wondering where you were. You said I’d see you today, Kate, so I could only imagine the worst.” He stroked her fingers in a slow, even rhythm. Adrian gritted his teeth.

  Peter moved closer to Cassie, his tone so intimate that a soft blush tinged her cheeks. “I couldn’t stand the thought that something might have happened to you,” he said, bending toward her to brush his lips against hers. She dipped her head.

  Adrian quirked an eyebrow in Cassie’s direction. She telegraphed her permission from beneath fringed eyelashes.

  He cleared his throat. “No worries about me, Peter?”

  “None whatsoever.” Peter frowned at the interruption. “I’m sorry, old man, but you’re nowhere near as enchanting as your cousin.”

  “You mean my wife,” Adrian said.

  Cassie withdrew her hand from Peter’s and drifted back to Adrian’s side, her face the color of chalk. Peter stared from her to Adrian, his mouth agape. It took a long moment for comprehension to dawn.