The Wedding Chase (16 page)

“Must I?”

“Do you know them or not?” Small wonder she had blacked his eye and scratched his cheek.

“I know them. We’ll sing the ‘Oh, Youth’ one and ‘Bonnie Lesley.’ Would you like to sing melody or harmony?”

“I will sing the harmony.”

He arranged the music before her and positioned himself near the edge of the bench. She played quickly through to familiarize them with their parts, then signaled to Wolfgang and they launched into the Irish love song. “ ‘Oh, Youth, whom I have kissed, like a star through the mist./ I have given thee this heart altogether.’ ”

The gleam in his eyes told her what a big mistake this song was going to be, but she could not stop now. She would ignore him and continue playing and singing.

“ ‘At first to steal the bliss of a maiden with a kiss …’ ”

Wolfgang sang louder, overpowering her softer voice. She looked up from the pianoforte keys to catch him licking his lips.

“ ‘To deceive her after this and to leave her.’ ”

Zel concentrated on the sheets of music, willing her fingers not to stumble over the keys as he continued even louder.

“ ‘Preferring sheep and kine and silver of the mine./ And the black mountain heifers to me?’ ”

She heard him cough and refused to raise her eyes.

“ ‘… the riches that you love, have chosen,/ Who would come to me and play by my side every day/ With a young heart gay and unfrozen.’ ”

The blasted man was winking at her. Had he no sense at all?

“ ‘But when the sun goes down, I sink upon the ground,/ I feel my bitter wound at that hour.’ ”

She glared at him as he cleared his throat.

“ ‘And all my friends not dead are casting at my head/Reproaches at my sad undoing.’ ”

She met his eyes, smiling sweetly.

“ ‘And this is what they say, ‘Since yourself went astray,/ Go and suffer to day in your ruin.’ ”

Wolfgang was quiet, his restlessness betrayed by long fingers running silently along the pianoforte keys. She nearly chuckled at his discomfort. Had she finally gotten the best of him? The song was not such a bad choice after all, if it could prick his conscience even a little.

“Are you ready for ‘Bonnie Lesley’?”

He started, quickly recovering. “Play on.”

Zel felt his eyes on her as they sang Burns’s Scottish ballad. His voice was rich and resonant, blending well with her own contralto. She dared to meet his eyes, he neither
winked nor licked his lips. He steadily met her gaze, his expression soft, almost tender.

“ ‘To see her is to love her,/ And love but her for ever,/ For Nature made her what she is,/ And ne’er made anither!’ ”

She left her hands resting gently on the keys, unwilling to release the lingering vibration, stirring when his hand brushed her arm. His crooked smile warmed her, the long, single dimple seemed to ask for her touch. She allowed a ghost of a smile to drift across her lips, then stood to acknowledge the applause.

He rose beside her. “Another?” Had she noticed before that his voice even in speaking had a melodious core?

“No, I believe we have done enough damage.”

“I’ll get you a lemonade.” Wolfgang took only one step. His face hardened in lines of tempered steel. “Simon Bedford.”

“Northcliffe, is that what you’re now called?” A slender young man of medium height with flaming red hair blocked Wolfgang’s path. “You’re daring to reenter society?”

“Simon, don’t start.” Wolfgang’s voice stretched taut, like a thread before it snaps. “This isn’t the place or time.”

“And what is the place? When is the time?” The smaller man blustered, chest puffed out, face red. “The field of honor you would never meet me on?”

“My God, man! You were a grief-stricken child. It would have been murder.”

“And it wasn’t murder with my sister?”

“Simon, we’ve been over this ground before. My wife’s death was an accident.” Zel placed a hand on Wolfgang’s arm. He glanced at her, features frozen, eyes narrowed and clouded. She opened her mouth to speak, to reassure or detain, but he brushed off her hand and with shoulders rigid stalked from the room and the party.

* * *

Wolfgang looked furtively up and down the street before entering the unmarked oaken door leading into Zel’s women’s club. He assured himself there was nothing wrong with a man entering this holy of holies. And it wouldn’t bother him in the least if anyone saw him.

Leaving his hat with a servant at the door, he poked his head into the designated room. Had there ever existed a single location inhabited by so many respectable women? Wolfgang feared to open his mouth, envisioning their reaction if he cussed or said something even mildly risqué. They would attack him with their reticules. He would go down under their blows, unable to defend himself. That devil, Ridgemont, owed him for this one.

Where in the fiery lakes of hell was Zel, anyway? He paced off a few steps, looking over heads for her. She would stand out, a blue jay among the sparrows. No, there she was across the room, back in her own sparrow garb, loose, dirt-brown dress, hair pulled back from her brow and temples.

Even the spectacles, which he’d barely seen in the past week, were back, in place on that impish, little nose. She should know it was far too late for disguises, enough had been revealed for him to imagine the rest. Wolfgang shook his head to clear his thoughts. A brother did not visually undress his sister.

Lucifer’s cloven hoof! This was never going to work.

And what demon had inspired that bloody song last night? His fists clenched, unclenched. Wolfgang had no idea he could feel so guilty. Zel was bringing out things long buried. Things that his father’s hatred, his sister’s death, and his wife’s betrayal had destroyed in him. Things too long dead to be safely revived. Buried they would remain. Yet he owed her something. Her reputation was badly mangled. It might not be entirely his fault, but if he didn’t help her, it would soon be beyond repair. And a woman such as Zel, strong and resourceful as she was, could not thrive without her reputation intact.

He would play out this little masquerade, play the doting brother, put Grandmama to work. Grandmama would adore Zel, he could already see that matchmaking gleam in her old eyes. Wolfgang tugged at his suddenly too tight collar as he edged toward Zel. He would need to be slippery indeed to escape Grandmama’s snares. She was getting older, slowing down a bit, maybe he would be lucky, but somehow he knew she would fight harder for this one. Maybe he should—

Wolfgang stumbled over a wrinkle in the worn carpet, grasping a chair back to steady himself. Satan’s horns! This was all that bastard Simon’s fault. If he hadn’t come to the musicale last night reviving old memories of Rosalind and their brief, ill-fated marriage, he would never be thinking this way. He should run, hard and fast, as far as his legs would carry him. Australia probably wasn’t far enough.

Zel was speaking to a small circle of women, fire burning bright in those crusader eyes.

“… that hallowed institution is nothing more than slavery. The woman moves from the tyranny of a father to the tyranny of a husband.” She paused for a breath and rushed on. “If marriage is to be tolerable it must be entered as one would a business contract, a merger of equal partners.”

He smiled as she continued. “Terms would be outlined on both sides, agreements hammered out regarding societal, family, and personal duties and responsibilities.”

“But what of romance, love, trust?” Wolfgang regretted the question the moment it passed his lips.

“Oh, the gentleman asks of love and trust and
romance
?” Her voice oozed sarcasm. “Fine emotions. They look so appealing in sonnets and novels. But where do they get a woman in real life? Bruised. Beaten. Living in fear of her life under the thumb of a man who regards her as merely another possession. The best a wife can hope for is a benevolent lord and master.”

“Are these the only options for a man and a woman,
Miss Fleetwood?” He moved to her side, close enough to inhale the spicy warmth that contrasted so with her cold, harsh words. “Are there no good marriages, no friendships across gender lines?”

“I suppose they may exist, my lord, but I have yet to see them. Excuse me, ladies, my lord.” She tried to move away but was stopped by an attractive, small, plump brunette.

“Zel, please speak with Lady March. She may donate a tidy sum.” The woman spied Wolfgang, scanned him appraisingly, and smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry. Who is your handsome friend?”

“Emily, this is Lord Northcliffe. My lord, my friend Mrs. Emily Carland.” Zel glanced briefly at him. “Please excuse me.” She pushed her friend ahead of her, through the crowd.

Wolfgang leaned against a high-backed chair, watching Zel’s slim hips sway as she walked purposefully across the room. A few women tried to pick up the thread of the conversation Zel had abandoned, but without her zeal it seemed to unravel. He paused a moment longer, then sauntered after Zel with studied nonchalance.

“… these women are terrified. They have nowhere to go. They must make a choice between the uncertain life on the streets of London and the certain horror of life with their husbands.” Zel spotted him and cast a thinly veiled warning with a golden green flash of her eyes. “We try to offer them a third choice, with Aquitaine House. But that choice takes money, Lady March.”

“I would like to see the establishment before I commit to its patronage, young lady.” The elderly woman patted Zel’s arm familiarly.

“Of course, I would be happy to escort you there, but remember, most of the place is not yet fit for habitation and we have only a few women living in the rooms that are now ready. I could take you there tomorrow morning.”

“It is not on the premises?” Lady March raised her bristly brows.

“The club only provides a sort of sponsorship for the home and this location is too well known.” Zel lowered her voice. “We keep the location of the women’s home secret for their protection.”

“May I join your tour? I’m considering contributing to, what did you call it, Aquitaine House?” Wolfgang’s generous offer was met by a metallic glare as he sidled up to Zel.

“I am sorry, my lord, but men are not allowed within its doors. It is too difficult for some of the women. It brings memories they would sooner forget.”

“How can I give my money to a cause I haven’t seen for myself?” His lips curled slightly at her crestfallen expression. At least she believed his proposed patronage as real as he was surprised to find it was. “But I don’t wish to frighten your women. I’ll send my man with a bank draft tomorrow.”

Her answering smile was worth every pound he would commit. Perhaps he’d become a regular patron of women’s causes. “My lord, your support is appreciated, thank you.” She extended her hand, he took it, squeezing gently.

“May I ask why you call it Aquitaine House?”

Zel pulled away her hand, but her smile remained. “Eleanor of Aquitaine was a patron of Fontevrault, an abbey founded by Robert of Arbrissel. The abbey was known as a haven for battered and ill-used wives.”

“So you pay homage to Eleanor, but what of Robert?”

“Clever, Lord Northcliffe.” Mrs. Carland patted his arm. “We honestly did think to honor Robert, but to call our home Robert’s Place would repel more women than it would draw. Sounds a bit like a tavern. Fontevrault House raised more questions than it answered. People seemed to accept Aquitaine House.”

“You see, my lord, we do not despise all men.” Zel shared a laugh with her friend. “I must attend to my other
guests. Emily, please see that Lord Northcliffe is served refreshments.”

Wolfgang turned his attention to Mrs. Carland, favoring her with his best womanizing smile. She met his eyes, humor dancing in hers, and returned his smile, full measure. “We have nothing stronger than ratafia, my lord.”

“A cup of tea will do nicely.” He lowered his voice. “I’d sooner have rat poison than that nasty concoction.”

Mrs. Carland chuckled. “Ratafia is unpleasant. I can’t think why so many ladies drink it. I prefer a good port.”

“I’m disappointed, Mrs. Carland.” His answering smile was real, comrade to comrade. “I’d have laid odds on you being a brandy drinker.”

“I do like a little of Napoleon’s best, now and then, late at night when I can sneak it out of my butler’s pantry.” She grinned widely. “But don’t breathe a word to Zel, she’d probably have me drummed out of the organization.”

Wolfgang drew Mrs. Carland’s hand through the crook of his elbow. “Lead on to the liquid refreshments, dubious as they might be.”

Her laugh reached out, solid and warm. “Dubious tea for his lordship.”

He joined her laughter, inordinately pleased that Zel would have such a friend as Emily Carland.

The cat crouched, still and patient, the only sign of life an occasional twitch of her whiskers or tail. The tiny gray mouse ambled by, oblivious to his fate, unaware of his mortal enemy’s sable coat gleaming in the thin scratch of moonlight filtering through the open window. The rich fur shimmered as muscles bunched, preparatory to the deadly pounce. The mouse squawked, caught, rib cage securely wedged under one velvet paw, while the other paw, claws extended, batted playfully at the now blood-soaked snout.

Devil’s fangs! Jerking upright, he rubbed the sheen of
perspiration off his nose and mouth. Wolfgang took a few deep breaths to slow his racing heartbeat. He should buy back his commission today. Somewhere in the world there had to be a war with England. Yes, the conflict in the former Colonies. They must need good officers to fight the Americans, and it had to be a damn sight safer than London was right now.

He pushed out of the bed, pacing to the mullioned window, flinging the curtains wide. The sun was just beginning to brighten the morning sky. Ari could use an unfettered gallop through the park as surely as he could. Maybe he’d be lucky and someone would take a better-aimed shot and save him from the misery sure to come if he didn’t extricate himself from the reluctant clutches of one Zel Fleetwood.