The Wedding Escape (34 page)

“If you want to marry Lord Whitcliffe, then Grace and I will arrange your hair and help you into your gown and make sure that you look positively beautiful for your wedding.” Annabelle took Amelia's hand. “But if you don't want to marry Whitcliffe, Amelia, you must tell us now so we can make alternate arrangements.”

“If I returned to Jack, my parents would do everything within their power to ruin him and his shipping company,” Amelia reflected despondently. “You're wrong if you think my father doesn't have the means to do that—he does. I can't let that happen. I don't want Jack to be hurt because he tried to help me. I could never live with the knowledge that I had been the cause of North Star Shipping's failing—not when I know how terribly important it is to him.”

“Maybe you should let Jack decide whether or not he is willing to take that risk.”

Her eyes widened. “Jack is here?”

“The whole family is, actually. Jack was most upset to learn that you had gone to London without him. I think he wants to talk to you about that.”

“I don't think he is particularly happy about the fact that you're getting married, either,” reflected Grace, glancing down at the enormous crowd filling the street below.

“But how can I possibly see him?” wondered Amelia. “I can't leave the house, and my mother will never let him in to speak to me.”

“If you want to see him, Amelia, then you shall—but we have to work quickly. Just tell us.”

Amelia hesitated. Jack had never promised her his undying love or marriage. He had never filled her head with flowery pledges and romantic vows that ultimately meant nothing, the way Percy had. But Jack had been the first person in her life to genuinely care about what it was that she wanted, which was the freedom to make her own life. And to the best of his ability, he had tried to give that to her.

Do not leave me,
he had pleaded with her on that final night, as he filled her heart and her soul with agonizing tenderness. In those final hours together, she had felt his need for her, as surely as if he had given her a piece of himself to her. But she had left him. She had ignored his raw, desperate appeal and sneaked away, telling herself that when it suited her she would simply return. Instead she had become trapped in the web of her family's deceit.

And Jack had come after her.

“Yes, I want to see him.” Whatever was to happen that day, she had to see Jack first.

Even if it was only to ask for his forgiveness before she said good-bye.

 

W
HY, LORD WHITCLIFFE, WHAT A SURPRISE.” FREDDY
moodily eyed his sister's betrothed over the rim of his glass. “Did you come by to see if you could chisel a little more money out of us before you finally say the vows and bring this whole sordid merger to a close? Or have you had a sudden attack of conscience, which is forcing you to call the despicable affair off?”

“Really, Freddy, it's much too early to be celebrating with drink and making silly jokes,” scolded Rosalind.

She wore an artificially bright smile as she swept into the drawing room, where her sons and husband had gathered to wait until it was time to depart for the church. A swarm of servants was buzzing around them, setting tables and polishing silver and arranging vases overflowing with flowers. Rosalind was dressed in a gown of lavender satin trimmed with sable which was proving to be uncomfortably hot, and her head was adorned with an enormous hat so copiously piled with ribbons and silk flowers she feared people might think she was wearing the wedding cake.

“He isn't accustomed to being up this early, Mother,” William joked from behind his newspaper. “He needs the drink to stay awake.”

“More like I need it to stomach the sight of you,” Freddy retorted.

“Shut your mouths.” John Belford glared at his two sons, looking as if he might suddenly reach out and cuff them on the back of their heads. “I'm tired of listening to both of you.”

“Do forgive us, Lord Whitcliffe,” apologized Rosalind, mortified that the duke had been witness to her family's coarse behavior. She did not want him to think that he was marrying into a family of ill-mannered Americans, as she feared most of the English aristocracy sniped behind their backs. “As you can see, we are rather preoccupied with getting ready for the reception today. Whatever brings you here before the ceremony?”

Lord Whitcliffe looked at her as if he thought she must be demented. “You do—and it had better be bloody important, to drag me through that disgusting crowd of drunken filth on the morning of my own wedding. I damn near had my carriage turned over by ruffians as we drove down the street.”

Rosalind frowned, confused. “I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean. How is it that I brought you here?”

“You sent me a note, madam, asking that I call upon you at once to discuss a matter of profound importance prior to the wedding. The rude little urchin who brought it was quite adamant that you had instructed him to deliver it into my hand alone. He then had the gall to turn his back on me before he was dismissed, and when I criticized him for it, he belched. That is what comes from hiring a filthy little guttersnipe to perform the duties of a footman.”

Lord Whitcliffe spat the words at her like annoying seeds. He disliked the Belfords generally, but he held particular contempt for Rosalind, who he saw as nothing more than a garishly dressed, social-climbing shop girl. John Belford was less pretentious but a complete boor, who continually succeeded in stunning London society by telling them tales of his impoverished background, as if it were something of which to be proud. Freddy was a complete drunk, but at least he was more tolerable than William, who simply oozed arrogance toward everyone he met. If not for their extraordinary wealth, Lord Whitcliffe would have nothing to do with them whatsoever. Once he had married their silly fool of a daughter and planted her firmly upon his estate, he hoped the rest of her atrocious family returned to America for good.

“If you're thinking to amend the amount we agreed upon as restitution for the humiliation your daughter has caused me these last weeks, do not waste your breath,” he continued curtly. “Fifty thousand pounds is damned cheap when one considers the disgrace she has brought to the Whitcliffe name.”

“And an illustrious name it is, too.” Freddy raised his drink in a mocking toast. “I can't wait to start telling everyone that I'm your brother-in-law, Whitcliffe. You won't mind if I visit you and Amelia on your estate, and bring along a few friends?”

Lord Whitcliffe winced.

“Forgive me, Lord Whitcliffe, but I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about,” Rosalind said, growing flustered. “I sent no—”

“Pardonnez-moi, madame,”
interrupted Annabelle, summoning all of her dramatic abilities as she burst into the room, anxiously wringing her hands, “but mademoiselle is very sick.”

“What do you mean, sick?” demanded Lord Whitcliffe, glaring at her. “This had better not be another one of her tricks…”

“I'm sure what the girl means is that Amelia is merely suffering from an attack of nerves,” interjected Rosalind, trying to defuse Lord Whitcliffe's anger. “All brides get a little stomach upset on the day of their wedding—it's perfectly normal…”

“
Non, non,
it is not the stomach.” Annabelle shook her head vehemently. “She has the spots.”

“The spots?” John Belford straightened in his chair, concerned. “What the devil do you mean, the spots?”

“She means that Amelia's complexion has become a little mottled as a result of her nerves,” Rosalind assured him, unwilling to consider the possibility that Amelia might actually be ill. “Very well, then,” she said, turning to Annabelle, “just cover them up with cosmetics.”

“It is not nerves,” Annabelle countered firmly. “She has the hot skin, she has the weakness, she has the spots. You must send for a doctor
immédiatement
.” Deciding she needed to kindle a little more fear in her audience, she added gravely, “I have seen this before—with the pox.”

“Good God!” Lord Whitcliffe's wrinkled little eyes bulged in horror. “Do you mean to say she has smallpox?”

Annabelle raised a hand to her heart and regarded him sympathetically, as if she believed that he must love his betrothed dearly. “I'm so sorry, monsieur.”

“We must send for a doctor at once,” said Freddy, alarmed. He rose to ring for the butler.

“Wait a moment.” Rosalind was acutely aware that the servants were stealing nervous glances at each other. The last thing she wanted was for panic to sweep through the house, or for word to get out that Amelia might be ill. “I will see Amelia first to determine how ill she is. This is probably nothing more than a mild rash brought on by nerves, which can quickly be remedied with some cool water and a light application of ointment. Do not do
anything,
” she instructed firmly, “until I have returned.”

Freddy set down his drink. “I want to see her, too.”

“So do I,” said Lord Whitcliffe, although he did not sound entirely certain.

“Now, Lord Whitcliffe, everyone knows that it is bad luck for a groom to see his bride on their wedding day before they are married,” Rosalind chimed gaily, trying to reinforce her assertion that there was nothing seriously wrong with Amelia. “Besides, she may not be dressed appropriately to receive you.”

Relief spread across his face. “Very well, then.”

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” she chirped, as if she were going off on some trivial errand.

She swept through the house and up the staircase, a resolute gust of satin and sable as Annabelle and Freddy hurried along behind her.

“Now then, Amelia,” she began, pushing open the bedroom door, “what's all this nonsense about a rash?”

Freddy's face paled in horror. “My God.”

Amelia lay on the bed covered by a single damp sheet, while Grace worriedly pressed a cool cloth against her forehead. The curtains had been closed once more, plunging the hot chamber into a stifling dreariness.

When playing a deathly-ill scene,
Annabelle had told Amelia as she deftly painted her face, throat and chest with pink spots,
lighting and ambience are extremely important.

“It's all right, Freddy,” Amelia murmured. “I'm fine.” She slowly turned her head to stare vacantly at her mother.

“What's wrong with you, Amelia?” Rosalind demanded, startled. “When did you become ill?”

When playing someone who is very ill,
Annabelle had instructed,
first you should deny the illness. That is more convincing than moaning and complaining.

“I'm not ill,” Amelia assured her weakly. “I just need to rest a little, and then I'll get into my gown.” She sighed and closed her eyes.

“But—how did this happen?” Rosalind looked at Grace and Annabelle in confusion.

“Mademoiselle told us she was not feeling well when we came in,” Annabelle replied in a low voice. “She said she had been aching and hot for all of yesterday. Did she not tell you?”

“No—she stayed in her room for most of yesterday, and I was extremely busy. I assumed she was just a little tired.” Rosalind felt a little defensive.

“When we opened the curtains to let in the light, we noticed the spots starting to appear,” Grace said quietly, still pressing a cloth to Amelia's forehead.

“What spots?” Amelia did not bother to open her eyes.

“It's nothing, Amy,” Freddy assured her. “Just a little rash from the heat. You rest and don't worry about a thing.”

“But I have to get dressed…my wedding…”

“You have time, Amelia,” Freddy told her. “It's still early.”

Rosalind ventured closer to the bed, staring in dismay at the feverish, spotted specter of her daughter. “You'll be fine, Amelia,” she murmured gently, trying to convince herself that was true. “Just rest a while.” She adjusted the sheet, then turned abruptly and left the room.

“You've got to send for a doctor now, Mother,” Freddy insisted, joining her in the corridor. “Immediately.”

“But the wedding.” Rosalind felt as if she was in shock.

“To hell with the goddamn wedding!” Freddy's voice was shaking with fury. “Amelia could be dying, and you're worried about your precious wedding? If she dies, you'll never be able to marry her off to
anyone
!”

“
C'est possible
the doctor will give her something to make her better, madame,” Annabelle interjected. “Then the wedding will only be delayed a little.”

Rosalind regarded her hopefully. “Do you think so?”

“Only the doctor will know what can be done.”

“We have not had need for a doctor while we've been in London,” Rosalind reflected. “Do you suppose Perkins will be able to suggest one?”

“You must send only for Dr. Chadwick,” Annabelle told her adamantly. “He is doctor to all the most esteemed households in London. He is very reputable—very discreet. That is
très important
.”

“Yes, of course.” Rosalind was thankful that the maid was being so helpful. “Do you know if he lives far from here?”

“It is not far,” Annabelle assured her.

“You'll have to go and fetch him, Frederick,” Rosalind decided. “Until we know for certain what is ailing Amelia, I don't want any of the servants to know that she is sick.”

“If I step out of that front door, I'll be mobbed by the journalists,” Freddy pointed out. “And my carriage is certain to be followed to the doctor's house, which will only arouse suspicion and panic.”

“Monsieur is right.” Annabelle assumed an air of great purpose. “If madame will permit me, I would be pleased to fetch the doctor myself. I can go on foot, which will be faster than trying to take a carriage through these blocked streets. No one is going to follow a maid.”