“No!” she blurted, her heartbeat racing. She took a quavery breath, wording her reply carefully. “I’m fine, I tell you. It’s Emily you should be concerned about. Now go on, Mr. McClanahan, before the mother of your child thinks you’ve abandoned her for another woman!”
With a shake of his handsome head Matt departed, taking the last of her hopes with him. What could have happened? Why are you tormenting me this way, Thompson? For the love of God, get yourself over here!
A few endless moments of silence passed in the airless little room. Despite the light snow outside, Lyla felt sweat drizzling down her spine and a curious weightlessness made her head float. What if Thompson didn’t show?
She refused to think about it. When the door opened again and Oliver Hollingsworth poked his cherubic face inside, she let her veil flutter down in front of her and resolutely gripped her bouquet—red roses and pale orange blossoms. Perhaps their heady perfume would keep her from fainting away before this ordeal was over.
“Oh, Miss Lyla,” he breathed, “when Frazier sees you—”
“He’s painted me this way. Remember?”
“Yes. Of course.”
With a nod, he let the madam and Grace precede them into the dim hallway that ran behind the sanctuary. The organ swelled and Lyla caught the scent of flowers and expensive perfumes and her own anxiety. Her mouth tasted like a dirty penny. She took Hollingsworth’s elbow and stood in a small alcove as the ushers showed Miss Chatterly and the last guests to their pews.
“You look stunning in your tuxedo,” she whispered to keep herself from going mad.
“I’d look better driving you away from here, Miss Lyla,” he pleaded quietly. “The back exit’s only steps away. Despite his best intentions, I fear Marshal Thompson’s been detained—”
“He’ll be here!” she insisted. Then, to calm herself as a few stragglers were seated, she asked, “How was Frazier this morning? Any second thoughts?”
“None that I noticed. Received a few last-minute well-wishers and then ate a hearty repast in his room.”
“I couldn’t swallow a bite,” she rasped. “And how was Allegra? I didn’t see her all morning.”
“She was in the hotel kitchen, preparing Mr. Foxe’s favorite blanc mange, as a token of her best wishes,” he replied with a smile. “Seemed quite contrite, as though she finally accepted the fact that she wouldn’t be his bride, and he finished it off with his usual flowery compliments. Ghastly stuff, her pudding. I was pleased she didn’t make enough for me—saved me from flushing it down the W.C. when she wasn’t looking, as I do at home.”
Lyla wanted to laugh, but suddenly the organ crescendoed into an unmistakable fanfare, and with a last questioning glance at her, Grace Putnam stepped through the sanctuary door.
It was happening. Mother of God, her maid of honor was walking down the aisle—and she was next!
Hail Mary, full of grace…Pray for us now and at the hour of our…Barry, where the hell are you?
With a resigned sigh, Oliver placed his hand over the sweaty one gripping his forearm, and stepped forward. There was a flurry of movement, a gust of cold air from the church entrance as a tuxedoed man entered at a trot.
Lyla’s pulse galloped to a halt. Too lean to be Thompson, damn it! The dark stranger gaped openly at her, smoothing his windblown hair before flashing her a devilish wink.
One of Frazier’s friends, undoubtedly…one she’d gladly run off with, except he was already ducking into the end of a pew near the rear of the sanctuary.
Only then, as the organist pulled out the last stops, did Lyla realize what she was walking into. The sanctuary was packed with elegantly-attired ladies and gentlemen, craning for a glimpse of her as they stood up to watch her walk by. There was no getting out of it now. She’d cunningly set this trap for Frazier Foxe, and she herself was getting snared. It was a fairy-tale wedding every girl dreamed of, but only a miracle would make her happily-ever-after possible.
“Are you ready, Miss Lyla?” Hollingsworth murmured.
“Yes,” she replied in the strongest voice she could manage. “He’ll get here yet, Oliver. You’ll see.”
“I sincerely hope so. I can’t bear much more of this waiting!”
She took the first step down an aisle that looked a mile long. At the end of it, in the elevated chancel, stood black-robed Reverend Bailey, his face alight with awe. A whispering fluttered through the crowd, audible above the triumphal march, as the congregation admired her.
Lyla focused on specific objects to keep from screaming: the beribboned bouquets and lacy red hearts on each pew end…candles flickering on tall brass stands…Emily McClanahan’s puffy, horrified expression…
Connor Foxe’s leer. Lord, but he looked ready to ravish her right here in the church, his agate-eyed stare raking over her with a lust that made her stomach churn. Surely this was not to be her fate. Surely God would intervene, or the roof would collapse under the weight of this morning’s snow, or—
Frazier, too, seemed to be gloating. Impeccably proper in his black frock coat, pinstriped trousers, and starched white shirt and cravat, he watched her every step with prideful wonder. He even adjusted his monocle, to fully appreciate the vision he’d so lovingly, fiendishly created, his face flushed with uncharacteristic emotion.
Lyla quailed and glanced away, only to see Hadley McDuff gazing wistfully at her from the second row. Was there no end to this hell she’d set herself up for? Why couldn’t she die now and get it over with?
Barry, I love you anyway, damn it, and I always will, she prayed. The bridal march ended in a flourish, and Hollingsworth released her to assume his place in the front row beside Miss Keating. She had no choice but to take the arm Frazier was offering her.
“You are the loveliest creature on God’s earth, and I adore you for it,” he murmured, to the delight of everyone in the first few rows.
Lyla gave him a faltering smile, and Reverend Bailey began.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here…” The clergyman’s voice carried above them, firm yet dreamlike, but Lyla was too far gone to follow the words. They weren’t the Latin phrases of the Mass, so perhaps this wouldn’t count. Perhaps in God’s eyes this marriage wasn’t real.
“—if anyone knows of a reason why this man and this woman should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
The silence screamed at her from all sides and she felt Frazier’s gaze challenging her, but her throat was glued shut. The sanctuary seemed stifling hot and the cloying scent of her bouquet made her thrust it at Grace with a vehemence she hadn’t intended. As the minister motioned them toward the kneeler, Lyla glanced again at the doors on either side of the chancel, her hopes flickering like a candle in a blizzard.
He wasn’t coming. God alone knew why, but Barry Thompson had stood her up.
There was a solo by an emotional soprano Lyla had heard at the Grand Opera House, not that she listened. As she mouthed the words of the vows Reverend Bailey led her in, her soul died within her. Frazier’s gloved hand shook as he slipped a golden band onto her finger. “With this ring I thee wed,” he said hoarsely.
What should’ve been the most exultant moment of her life left her feeling cold and forsaken, as though she were at her own funeral. She could feel the color draining from her face, the joints of her legs and arms going rubbery as she rose from the bench and looked up at the monster she’d just married.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Frazier’s head jerked and his eyes widened when he turned to face her. Apparently he’d forgotten about this part of the ceremony. He was having a hard time getting his breath, he was so nervous about bringing his lips to hers for the first time, knowing the congregation would never forgive him if he didn’t. Connor coughed beside them. Grace’s skirts rustled as she shifted nervously.
Slowly, with obvious trepidation, Foxe lifted the gossamer veil, his gray eyes widening like a frightened animal’s. Lyl
a swallowed, wondering why an imposter who’d duped his friends for years would have trouble kissing his new wife in front of them, for God’s sake, and then he grimaced! His face contorted, followed by spasmodic arm movements that sent a gasp through the puzzled crowd. When he tried to retain his balance, his hands went around her neck in a death grip that left her gasping, terrified.
“He’s going to kill her!” Grace Putnam screamed, and she lunged toward them, grabbing at Frazier’s gloved fingers.
But Connor was already attacking from the other side. “She’s mine, damn it! Let her go!” he snarled.
Lyla was losing consciousness when a startled murmuring filled the sanctuary. She was vaguely aware that Connor had freed her from Frazier’s vise-like grip and that men from the front rows were rushing up to settle the situation, while Reverend Bailey stepped back, too horrified for words. She was being lifted away by arms she couldn’t see, arms that cradled her against a broad, leather-scented chest and a stubbled jaw.
“Lyla, honey, I’m so damn sorry I—”
Barry! It was Barry’s voice bringing her up from the depths of numbness. She groped for his shoulders so she could cling to him, sobbing with joy and relief. He’d come for her, even if he was a few minutes late!
“I don’t believe what I’m seeing,” he mumbled. “I’ve got to stop this before somebody gets killed.”
Turning, Lyla heard gasps of horror and shock, some directed at her and Barry, but most of them caused by the macabre drama that was unfolding before the altar. Frazier was convulsing crazily, his eyes bugging and his arms pulled back into his stepbrother’s grip. Oliver Hollingsworth had vaulted over the railing in front of his pew, brandishing the gold-headed walking stick Allegra had been entrusted with. While he clubbed a protesting Connor, Hadley McDuff sprang to his aid by tackling Frazier to the floor. Amid outcries in his heavy brogue, other voices were heard, and Rex Adams, Kelly Jameson, and Matt McClanahan were rushing forward to bring the ungodly commotion under control.
Thompson felt someone slip up behind him and he hugged Lyla protectively.
“Marshal, I’d be pleased to help,” a familiar voice drawled. “You take care of that scuffle while Gracie and I get Lyla to a safe place.”
Fully conscious now, Lyla stared over Barry’s shoulder at this newcomer—the rake who’d hurried into the church at the last minute! His chocolate-brown eyes sparkled in a clean-shaven face that looked vaguely familiar, yet—
“Rafferty!” Barry rasped. “Where the hell’ve you been?”
Jack chuckled, all the while gazing at Lyla. “Here in Cripple. Got a shave and a haircut, new duds, a room at the National. When I found those papers you forgot, I figured this’d be a wedding I shouldn’t miss, and damn! Never seen the likes of it.”
Thompson glanced at the ongoing fisticuffs and then back at the tuxedoed outlaw beside him. “Get her out of here so she can change clothes. We’ll talk in my office after I settle this. You all right now, honey?”
Nodding, Lyla felt herself being lowered to the floor between Jack and Grace, who seemed as eager to leave as she was. Frazier was still stricken by convulsions and Connor’s beastly behavior had triggered a vociferous outpouring she still couldn’t believe, with Hollingsworth and Hadley McDuff the ringleaders! Voices and fists were flying, until an ominous thunk echoed into the high beamed ceiling and the crowd fell silent.
Deputy Adams and McClanahan took advantage of the moment to seize the two elderly attackers and pull them away from the Foxe brothers, who were both lying on the chancel steps. Connor was unconscious and Frazier…Frazier was arched backward, his eyes bulging as though he were in horrendous pain, yet he was absolutely stiff.
“Jesus, get her out of here,” Miss Putnam muttered, and Lyla hurried out the side exit between her and Rafferty, too stunned to feel the sudden chill or the snowflakes tickling her face. Grace grabbed up her train and boosted her into Frazier’s carriage while Jack hopped up into the driver’s seat.
All she saw during the short ride to the hotel was Foxe, frozen in a pose that suggested he was being pulled backward into hell as punishment for his many sins. He had seemed unusually fidgety during the vows; short of breath, as though his collar was choking him, yet she couldn’t believe the wedding he’d so gleefully staged for his peers—the ultimate of his deceptions—had sent him into such ghastly contortions.
They were in her hotel room…Grace was choosing another dress from the armoire while Rafferty was unbuttoning the back of her satin—
Rafferty? Lyla pivoted on her heel, glaring. “And what the hell’re you doing? And you’re letting him!”
Grace laughed as only a sultry Indian princess flirting with a handsome man could. “He’s going as far as your undies, honey, and then I’m taking over. Jack’s quite good at buttons.”
“And how would you know that?”
Rafferty chuckled. “Grace and I go back to when she was running a tattoo parlor in Dodge. Small world, seeing her as your maid of honor. And what a hoot!”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Rafferty,” the whore teased, winking at Lyla. “He’s got the nicest ass you’ll ever see, honey, and a heart tattooed on one luscious cheek. With my initials inside it.”
“That’s a damn lie! You—”
“I always sign my work, Jack,” Cherry Blossom replied slyly. “Not my fault you got so drunk you didn’t know which end was up, and what I was writing on it.”
Lyla looked from one dark-haired scoundrel to the other, laughing at the patter she suspected they’d shared to cheer her up. Rafferty deftly finished unfastening her gown while Grace stood waiting with the red plaid dress she’d worn to lunch at Delmonico’s. Lifetimes ago, it seemed.
“I—I’m not sure such a bright color’s appropriate.”
“Red for St. Valentine’s Day,” the dove insisted. “And after what we just watched in that church, I don’t think decorum means a helluva lot. Hurry, now, so we can get you to Thompson’s office before—” The Indian princess stopped to glare at her, yet the corners of her mouth were twitching. “You could’ve told me he was alive, damn it! A river of tears I cried, and for nothing!”
Lyla slipped up underneath the dress Grace was holding, turning modestly when she saw Rafferty ogling her. “Why would I think you cared, after your detailed rundown of the way he broke all his promises to take you away from here?” she asked quietly.
The whore’s mouth tightened, and she let Rafferty fasten the back of the plaid dress. “All right, so I exaggerated a little. I was furious with him for dropping me like a rotten potato when you waltzed into the Rose. He was one of the few friends I had, damn it, and you were snatching him away!”
The deep loneliness in her voice made Lyla pity Grace a little. She sensed this was as close as the notorious Princess Cherry Blossom would come to an apology, and she accepted it with a nod.
“Seems to me the marshal made a few promises to you as well, Lyla. But he got here too late to make good on them,” Rafferty commented quietly. “What’re you going to do about that?”
Staring at the glittering gold band that branded her as Mrs. Frazier Foxe, Lyla sighed. “I honestly don’t know. We’d best get over to the jailhouse before every reporter in town hears what’s happened. This’ll be a front-page story the likes of which Cripple’s never seen.”
Chapter 31
The parade entering the jailhouse was one Lyla wouldn’t have believed had she not seen it. First came Oliver Hollingsworth, beaming at her in his elegant tuxedo as Rex Adams led him by the handcuffs to a chair in the corner. Hadley McDuff followed, his slender, chinless face raised with defiant pride. McClanahan released him, shaking his head as the Irish aristocrat sat down beside Frazier’s valet. Barry allowed Allegra Keating to precede him inside, and shut the door against the crowd that was already gathering on the sidewalk.
The marshal appeared exhausted, his clothes wrinkled from being slept in several nights, yet to Lyla he’d never looked more handsome. She co
uld only imagine the miles of snowy terrain he’d covered and the agony he’d suffered when he’d arrived too late—all because she’d insisted on going through with the wedding instead of letting her friends help her escape!
He was tough enough to handle this situation, though, virile and tall, exuding a rugged masculinity that made her go fluttery inside. She smiled shyly as he approached the desk where she was sitting.
“That dress brings back a few memories,” he murmured. He glanced around the small office. “Are Cherry Blossom and Rafferty here?”
“They’re in an empty cell, catching up on old times.”
“Well—we’d better not interrupt that,” he said with a smile. Then he sobered, sitting on the desk beside her. “Before we get to the bottom of this, I’d better fill you in. Frazier was dead before Doc Geary got to him, and Connor was gone a few moments later.”
Despite the hatred she harbored for the two Foxes, Lyla’s jaw dropped. “Mother of God! How?”
“That’s what we’re about to find out. The folks at the church were shocked, and when the New Yorker’s caterer asked what he was supposed to do with all the food Frazier’s paid for, I suggested everyone go there to eat, to keep them from pestering us here. I hope that’s all right by you.”
She nodded, sadly aware of how many decisions she faced as Foxe’s widow—and how badly it hurt Thompson to acknowledge that she’d actually gone through with the wedding. “Barry, I’m sorry—”
“We’ll talk about it later. After we piece together what really went on in that sanctuary.” He removed his coat and hat, studying the two courtly-looking gentlemen who’d started the ruckus. “When I came through the side door I saw you attacking Connor Foxe with a walking stick, Mr. Hollingsworth, while Mr. McDuff went after Frazier.”
“Yes, marshal,” the valet piped up. “When I saw Connor grabbing Mr. Foxe I felt it was my duty to stop him, not because Frazier was in danger, but because Miss Lyla was. That lecherous lout had designs on her—tried to rape her once, you know—and his crude comment confirmed his malevolent intentions! No honorable man could allow such treachery to continue!”
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