Reluctant Bride Read online

  “He loves the boy. That is the only explanation,” Edmund said simply. “When love flies in the window, common sense flies out the door, to rephrase an old saw. I refer, of course, to paternal love in this case."

  “A pity some filial love had not been returned. I would dearly love to whip Glandower Cummings till he wipes that grin off his face,” Maisie said angrily.

  “He won't be grinning when we get through with him,” Edmund promised. “Shall we take Mitzi for her walk before resuming our journey, Liz?"

  “No, let us get on with this interminable trip."

  “She's getting pretty frisky,” he cautioned, but as I looked toward the corner, I saw her to be settled in comfortably with a bone, which I had not seen Edmund slip to her, so slyly had he done it.

  I took the idea he wanted to speak to me privately, possibly about something else Weston had said. “Very well, but let us make it a short walk."

  “We'll be right back, Maisie,” he said. “I'll settle our account here on the way out. Join me in two minutes, Liz."

  My aunt and I discussed this new revelation as I put on my jacket and bonnet, and I leashed Mitzi. My aunt had nothing but abuse for Glandower, but to tell the truth, I was beginning to feel sorry for the boy. He was all but caught, and in addition to the disgrace and criminal reprisals, he would lose the love and respect of his stepfather. I pitied Weston too. What could have caused the boy to go so wrong? Uncle was generous to a fault with him, gave him enormous sums to pay his debts. He had either fallen into some monumental hobble, or he was just plain evil. I did not remember him as being actually evil.

  If I had taken Blount's advice and used two minutes to put on my bonnet, instead of one, he would have been spared his shame. When I went into the lobby, he was chatting with a lady of questionable virtue—again. It is shocking the way they are taking over the public inns. I stood a few yards from them, watching but unable to hear their words. I saw him shake his head and make some smiling demurral. As he did so, he cast a cautious eye toward our parlor, and saw me looking at him. I know he wanted to kill me. Such a black look as I was subjected to. I had made enough of a fool of myself for one day. Not a word would I say about it. I prolonged the drawing on of my gloves till she had walked away. Only then did I advance to him.

  “All set?” I asked, taking the arm he offered.

  We went out into the street. “Which way shall we go?” he asked, looking up and down.

  “Mitzi has decided we go left,” I answered, as she took a flying start in that direction, pulling me after her.

  “Shall I hold the leash for you?” he offered.

  “No, I can manage her."

  The darkness had descended to the point where the shop windows were no attraction. The wares had become invisible. We walked half a block in silence, then Edmund said, “That wasn't what you think,” in a defensive way.

  “You don't know what I think. I thought the vicar's wife you were speaking to was asking direction to the closest cathedral."

  “She accosted me. I didn't go after her."

  “Of course not. How should you go after a perfectly respectable woman?” And why should you feel accountable to me if you had, my tone implied.

  He decided to abandon this topic. “Not afraid to drive after dark, are you?” was his next venture.

  “No, I have never been held up by highwaymen. Was that what you meant?"

  “Yes. I am not at all sure it was wise to take two ladies on a journey at night. It would not delay us much to stay over and leave early in the morning."

  “I thought you wanted to get to London tonight."

  “We would make better time in daylight."

  “No, no, let us continue on. I have already been robbed of my valuables, and you can stick your roll of money into your boot."

  “First place they look."

  “In your hat then."

  “The second place they look."

  “As you are familiar with the places they look, hide it where they do not."

  We took only a short walk before going quickly back to the inn. The female was still loitering about the lobby. She looked to Edmund with a questioning smile. I understood at once his eagerness to be attacked by highwaymen.

  “We shall stay overnight if you wish, Sir Edmund,” I said, with a level glance at the woman. “I misunderstood your desire to remain."

  He pulled his lips into a thin line and pounced so swiftly to our parlor he nearly pulled my arm from its socket. “We're ready, Maisie,” he said in a remarkably angry voice. She already had on her hat.

  “What is he in a pucker about now?” she asked, when he went out to order our carriage.

  “He is miffed that I insisted on continuing the trip tonight."

  “Why, he was the one who wanted to go on."

  “Something must have come up to change his mind."

  “What have you been up to now, Lizzie?"

  “Don't ask, or I might be tempted to tell you.” The first part of the voyage was a conversationalist's delight compared to the last. My aunt took to snoring softly, while Sir Edmund folded his arms over his chest, leaned back in a corner and sulked. I lifted my pug to my knee and stroked her to sleep, as quiet as the others. There was only one disturbance. In about half an hour, we heard some shouting ahead of us on the road.

  “Highwaymen!” Edmund shouted jubilantly, while a wave of fear whipped through me.

  “Have you hidden your money?” I asked him.

  “In my boot."

  “That's the first place they'll look!"

  “I haven't enough to worry about. It has been an expensive trip,” he added curtly.

  So it had too. He had not planned to jaunter about the countryside for days with two women and a dog, hiring teams and paying for the repair of two carriages. “Be sure to give me the reckoning when we get home. I do not bank in London."

  The shouts, as we learned when we reached their source, were occasioned by a pair of drunkards straggling down the road, singing and abusing each other at the top of their lungs. “Your hope of highwaymen has been disappointed,” I told him smugly.

  “I am inured to having my hopes disappointed,” he replied in his put-upon tone.

  It was the last speech any of us made before we rattled up in front of his house in Belgrave Square much later. It was a fine home, but it elicited no praise from me. “Is this it?” I asked with an air of indifference.

  “No, this is Carlton House,” was his sarcastic answer. His mood had not improved over the length of the trip. The house was in total darkness. Had he not had a key with him, we would have been sunk, but he had. He let us in, Maisie and I walking softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping servants. He felt around on a hall table for a tinder box, lit some candles, took one up, and strode off into the black bowels of the place. When he returned, he said, “My housekeeper will be here shortly to show you to your rooms. If you need anything, do not hesitate to tell her."

  “You shouldn't have bothered rousing her up, Edmund,” Maisie said, stifling a yawn.

  “She is paid to look after me,” was his unfeeling answer.

  The woman, when she came, was neither surprised nor offended to be hauled from her bed at so late an hour. She took us abovestairs to our chambers. Edmund came up at our heels.

  “Do you mind if Mitzi sleeps in my room, or would you prefer to put her somewhere else?” I asked him.

  “Suit yourself, but pray do not let her destroy the room."

  “What time shall we leave in the morning?” I asked, not rising to his insults. As though I would let my pug destroy another's property!

  “I have decided to go alone to Glandower's place. I got you into this mess, and I shall rectify it."

  “It is not your fault—not entirely. If he was intent on robbing me, he would have found a means, even without the accident."

  “I accept full responsibility. If I cannot retrieve the necklace, I shall reimburse you for it. I begin to wish I had thought of th
at simple expedient at the outset.” The whole conversation was more of an angry harangue than anything else. “Five thousand, was it?"

  “Thirty-five hundred, and you are not paying for it."

  His jaws stiffened, but he said nothing. He looked like nothing so much as a sulking boy. I knew why he was in this pelter, too. “If you felt so strongly about remaining overnight at the inn, you should have said so,” I finally told him. I had been longing to say it for hours. “The delay would have been preferable to this show of boorishness."

  He drew a long, slow breath, while his temper came to a rolling boil. “You are determined to confirm your first poor opinion of me. I told you..."

  “Never mind. It is nothing to me."

  “You have made that more than obvious. Goodnight, ma'am. I shall in all probability be gone when you arise in the morning. I hope to have your necklace back to you by noon."

  “I am going with you!"

  “No, Miss Braden, you are not,” he contradicted, then strode down the hall with his fists clenched at his sides.

  Chapter 12

  We left for Glandower Cummings's place, Edmund and myself, at nine-thirty. By morning, his ranting fury had dissipated to simple anger, a comparatively good mood for him. I was in no hurry to go downstairs, for I did not awaken till nearly nine, and was sure he would be gone. Truth to tell, I was not overly eager to confront Cummings. I had decided, during a fairly sleepless night, to let Blount go alone and handle it if he could. He sat at the breakfast table, quite obviously waiting for me, as his plate was empty of beefsteak. A newspaper was propped before him, indicating a leisurely meal.

  “Good morning,” I said, adopting a cheerful tone, and refraining from any mention of his not being off after Glandower.

  “Good morning,” he answered, lowering the newspaper. His face wore a sheepish expression. I took the idea he was ashamed of his evening's performance, as well he might be. “Let me pour you some coffee while you wait for breakfast."

  He rang a bell, which brought a servant scrambling to our side.

  “Where is Mitzi?” he asked.

  “Your butler was kind enough to tend to her for me. You will be relieved to hear she has not demolished your chamber."

  “I am afraid I was not in the best of moods last night."

  “If that is your second best, Edmund, you ought to buy a desert island and set up as a hermit."

  “I had a touch of migraine,” he said, clutching at that limp old excuse for ill manners.

  “Pity. You are subject to frequent attacks, I think? You really ought to have your head looked at."

  “By a mental doctor, you mean?"

  “Of course."

  My civility won a reluctant smile. “The attacks are frequent, but of short duration. A good night's sleep will usually cure them. Do you still want to come with me to confront Cummings? It will not be pleasant. But then I have observed you are not one to shrink from unpleasant encounters."

  “Very true, I encounter a deal of unpleasantness in my dealings with gentlemen."

  “Do you suppose there could be something amiss in your handling of gentlemen, that you encounter so much unpleasantness?” he suggested, but in a bantering way, determined not to come to cuffs again.

  “Yes, I believe I am much too polite with them."

  “Much,” he agreed at once. “I have been struck from the beginning by your excessive politeness. To me, in any case. Did you beat me over the head with your reticule when I overturned your carriage? Certainly not. You couldn't find it. You ordered me into the ditch to look for it instead, then were so polite as to accuse me of common thievery, to order me to empty my pockets for inspection, as though you were a Bow Street Runner and I a criminal."

  "You accused the squire,” I reminded him.

  “At whose instigation?"

  “Besides, I got you out of jail, didn't I?"

  “Certainly you did, Lady Elizabeth, by bandying my name about in a most unnecessary way. You were very kind, too, in insisting I go twice into the wilds to visit Reuben. I want you to know I appreciate how deeply I am in your debt."

  “Should I awaken Maisie?” I asked, to stem the flow of memories.

  “Suit yourself. You always do.” A pugnacious tone was creeping into his words. I ignored it, also the sleeping Maisie.

  “Your migraine is returning, is it?” was all I said.

  “No. Lizzie, I am determined not to have a headache today. Here,” he said, tossing a gold ring down on the table. “We are engaged again. Sufficient cause for a bout of the megrim. Don't lose it. It is my mother's."

  “I won't. And I won't let Mitzi eat it either. It is too small,” I said, trying to push it over my knuckle.

  “My mother was small."

  “Was she?” I asked, surprised. I had envisioned her a large, loud-voiced grenadier of a woman. When a man is opposed to marriage, it will sometimes be due to a quarrelsome mama, I have discovered. Then, too, his own characteristics had to be inherited from either her or his father. “What was she like?"

  “A saint. Patient, forebearing. She had plenty to bear. My father was like me. You look surprised. Have I said something to indicate she was ill-natured?"

  “No, not at all."

  “She had a hard life. A foul-tempered husband is a sad infliction to spring on an unsuspecting lady."

  “Was she unsuspecting? An arranged marriage, I deduce?"

  “No, they had been neighbors forever, but I shouldn't think he showed her his worst side when they were courting. She always looked—frightened, or abused. Unhappy is all I mean. He didn't actually harm her physically. She was gentle, easily provoked to tears. She cried a good deal."

  She sounded a perfect ninnyhammer to me, or worse, a female who used her tears to bring her spouse round her thumb. “I expect that brought a halt to your father's tantrums?” I asked.

  “Instantly! My father knew two moods—anger and remorse. I think it is a mistake for a man of unstable temperament to marry, don't you?"

  “To marry a timid lady, yes. Good gracious, is this the reason you espouse misogamy? Don't be such a gudgeon, Edmund. Find someone who is not afraid of your blustering, arm her with a stout club and marry her."

  “Omitting the stout club, I feel you may be right."

  “Omitting the club, I am not at all sure I am right. I cannot get her ring on,” I said, after pushing at it for some moments.

  “Rub a little of this butter on your finger,” he suggested.

  The trick worked. It slid on, without quite cutting off my circulation. “Let us decide exactly how to proceed with Glandower,” I said. “Do we pretend it is a social call merely, and tell him Weston bought my necklace?"

  “I have been revising our strategy. As we will not be putting up with Cummings, a search of his premises will not be at all easy to arrange. Then too, if he has already pawned the necklace, we are at point non plus. Even if he shows surprise at his stepfather's purchase, he will not likely crop out into a confession. We may be morally certain he is guilty, but to prove it is more difficult."

  “Unless we could learn where he sold it."

  “Precisely. What we should do is tour the jewel merchants as a couple of connoisseurs looking for old jewelry. Your piece is interesting enough that word of its presence might well be known in the traders’ circle. At least I always know within a day when a neighbor has bought a new bull—I daresay it is no different with diamonds. If we can discover who bought it, then it will not be impossible to get a description of the seller."

  “We know his description: a walleyed man in a green jacket."

  Edmund shook his head. “No. Bibelots of no great value will be purchased from a commoner. Glandower would more likely have traded off the real diamonds himself. A trader would not buy them from just anyone, unless he is an outright crook."

  “This plan will take a while to accomplish. It presupposes as well that Glandower has sold them. How many traders do you reckon there are in London?"<
br />
  “Dozens, probably hundreds. My hope is that we will not have to visit them all. If the piece is in town, I expect any of the large traders can direct us to its purchaser."

  “It won't do any harm to try. If we hear nothing, then we will assume Cummings has not sold it yet, and confront him."

  When Maisie joined us later, she approved of the plan. She also agreed to remain at his home while we two spent the morning tracking down dealers in secondhand gems. Hamlet, who is jokingly called the Prince of Denmark by his clients, had his shop at the corner of Cranbourne Alley. It was stuffed full of gold and silver plate in one room, while the jewel room held a king's ransom in all manner of precious stone, but it held no necklace given to Sir Eldridge by Queen Elizabeth, nor had he any rumors of the object being in town. He gave a list of likely dealers, with Rundell and Bridges at the top of the list. The shop held less opulent objects than Hamlet's, but it displayed them more attractively. My necklace was not there either, but the dealer had heard some talk of it, which sounded promising.

  To save needless time, Edmund, who was familiar with the city, laid out a map for us that would involve a minimum of doubling back and forth. We settled on a story we would relate to the dealers, one that limited our interest to that one specific necklace and also included our eagerness to get it immediately. Our imaginary engagement was rushed into an imaginary wedding. Pampered bride that I was, I would have nothing but an Elizabethan diamond necklace for my wedding present, during our brief honeymoon in London. My doting spouse tried to act besotted enough to make this tale credible. His temper made his job difficult, but my assertive way was of great help in my role.

  “This will save us hours of looking at other pieces,” Edmund pointed out. “They will be trying to unload rings and brooches and bracelets on me if I indicate an interest in old jewelry in general. It is only a necklace you want, Lady Blount."

  “What an ugly-sounding name it is."

  He looked shocked. “Even my mother, who objected to everything else she married into, never objected to her name,” he answered.

  “Perhaps her maiden name was equally ugly. Mine is not."

  “You won't have to change your initial at least,” he answered reasonably.