“I am a little,” she admitted. “But if you think I look tired, you should see Justin. He’s quite shattered. He hadn’t realized how ill Papa would be. I told him he’s made tremendous strides this last week, but I’m not sure that he believes me.”
“Justin was the life and soul of the party. He seemed in good spirits to me. He had us all laughing.”
“Yes. Well, that’s Justin’s way. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things deeply. He did have us laughing, though, didn’t he? Papa especially. I think Justin is just the tonic Papa needs right now.”
His hand brushed her abdomen. “You didn’t tell them about the child?”
She sighed and put her head on his shoulder. “No. Too much excitement for one day. Besides, I want to keep it our secret for a little while longer. Just the three of us, getting to know each other.”
She raised her head and looked into his eyes. “Do you think I’m being foolish?”
“I don’t care whether you’re foolish or not. If that’s what you want, that’s how it will be.”
“That’s no answer.”
“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think you’re being foolish.”
Arms around each other’s waists, they walked along the corridor. “Where are you taking me, Richard?”
“I’m going to tuck you up in bed so you can have a little rest before dinner.”
“Mmm,” she sighed.
When she was tucked up in bed, with hot bricks at her feet, Richard sat down in front of the fire to read a book. But he couldn’t concentrate. His eyes kept straying to his wife. A few months ago, he would never have believed that he could be this man, in this chair, so deeply happy that he wouldn’t care if he never got out of it. Everything that was precious to him was in this room.
The accident happened just after they passed Kensington. The trouble was, the curricle lights had winked out and they were traveling blind. One minute they were on the road, and the next, they were driven into the ditch by a coach and four that came charging out of the dark and tried to overtake them. One of the curricle wheels broke and both Freddie and Sally went tumbling into the ditch.
The coach stopped and a gentleman and one of his coachmen walked back to them.
“My fault entirely,” said Freddie, scrambling to his feet. “If there’s any damage to your carriage, I’ll pay the shot, of course.”
“You can be sure of that. Well, we can’t leave you here. I suppose you’ll have to travel with us. Joe, unhitch the horses. We’ll take them with us.”
The offer, so grudgingly given, had Sally’s temper heating. “You were driving too fast,” she declared.
Freddie said quickly, “Very good of you. Thank you. I’m Latham, by the way, and this is my sister, Miss Latham.”
“Chalbury. John Chalbury. How do you do?”
Sally kept her lips closed. Freddie helped her to her feet and got her onto the road.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” said Chalbury. “Take your sister to my coach, then get back here and help us.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Freddie.
When they were out of Chalbury’s hearing, Freddie said, “Sal, what’s got into you? The man is only trying to help. You’re not usually so stiff and starchy.”
“He was driving too fast,” she said.
“No, he wasn’t. And the accident was my fault. I knew those lamps were faulty and should be replaced. I just never got around to doing it. So, be polite. Unbend a little.”
But she couldn’t. She’d taken an instant dislike to John Chalbury, and nothing could make her change her mind.
Most of the upstairs lights were doused and the ground-floor shutters were drawn when Jane and Case slipped out of the house.
“Where are you taking me?” Jane asked.
“Somewhere private and romantic where I can be alone with my beautiful wife.”
“What’s wrong with your bedchamber or mine?”
“Justin. He has an odd sense of humor. I wouldn’t feel safe with him loose in the house. I’m not jesting. Frogs and toads between the sheets, bells going off, literally, every time we move in bed. No, this way is better.”
He did up the top buttons of her coat then became lost in her dark eyes. He had to taste her lips, had to feel her softness between his hands. Her trembling response and the enforced celibacy of the last few weeks undermined his control. His kisses became urgent, demanding.
With palms splayed against his chest, she pushed out of his arms. “Case, this is madness.” She started to laugh. “Let’s hurry. Let’s get to that private romantic place where we can be alone, then make love to me in earnest.”
“I don’t make love in earnest. I do it with finesse.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
He laughed. He seemed so carefree and young in that moment that she was captivated.
“I love to see you happy,” she said.
He put an arm around her shoulders, hugging her, and they walked on. “This hasn’t been much of a wedding day for you,” he said. “The bride is supposed to be the center of attention. But with Justin newly home, and our father so frail, and no one wanting to leave his side . . .”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “I’m quite cast down. Case, I’m not a child. I don’t care to be the center of attention, and if that happened, I’d run away and hide in a closet.”
Another laugh from him and another hug for her.
“Of course your father is the focus of attention,” she said. “If he wasn’t, I’d wonder what kind of family I’d married into. And I wasn’t lonely. I spent some time with Trentie and Ben.”
“Your housekeeper and stableboy.” He groaned.
“That’s not how I think of them. They’re my friends. They were at the church, weren’t they? That’s how much I think of them.”
A little while later, he said, “Your friend, Mrs. Gray, didn’t come to the wedding.”
She went quiet. “No,” she said. “Oliver sent me a letter saying that it would be too much for her. It seems an officer of the law called at their house the morning after Gideon died and asked her to identify the body. So now she knows the truth about Gideon, and she’s not taking it very well. Oliver begged me not to take offense, and not to give up the friendship.”
“You won’t give up the friendship, I know that. But how are you going to mend it?”
She sighed. “I don’t really know.”
He looked up as the first flakes of snow began to fall. “You know, Jane, you could ask her to help you with a project for the parish poorhouse. She’s a vicar’s wife. She would feel obliged to do her part. And from what you’ve told me about Letty, she would have a real interest in that kind of work. Then, who knows.”
She clutched his arm. “Case! Sometimes you astound me! That’s a splendid idea. I think it might work.”
“Yes, I’m quite an intelligent fellow when the occasion demands.” He was distinctly amused.
“No. That’s a compliment. Most men wouldn’t even think of it.”
They came out of the trees and climbed a steep incline lined one either side with small cottages. “Workers’ cottages,” Case told her. “This one is ours.”
It stood a little back from the others. When they entered it, the draft from the door sent sparks shooting up the chimney. It was very snug, with a carpet on the floor, and a table in front of the window and a narrow bed.
“This used to be Richard’s cottage,” he said, “when he was on the run and hiding out at Twickenham, posing as a coachman. I say ‘posing’ because he was the worst coachman that ever darkened our doors. This was his idea. The carpet, by the way, was his suggestion. We don’t outfit our workers’ cottages with luxuries.”
“I didn’t know your brother-in-law hid out here when he was on the run.”
“No. Well, not everything gets reported in the papers.”
“No,” she said, thinking of the newspaper reports of the night Gideon died. They hardly skimmed the surface, but that was because British Intelligence doled out the information, so Case said, and they wanted the public to know only what they wanted them to know.
“And here,” said Case, “is champagne for milady, and a basket of provisions to stave of starvation.”
“The champagne will do fine.”
She was disappointed. She didn’t want champagne or something to eat. She wanted to be in his arms. Her body craved his touch. But obviously, there was something he wanted more. He wanted to talk.
It came to her, then, that that’s what she wanted, too. There were things she should have said to him long before now. This was the beginning of their marriage. They had to start with a clean slate.
When they were sitting in front of the fire, drinking their champagne, Case said, “You know, Jane, everything happened so fast after I left you that last time, when you told me we had to part. We never got round to talking about it, and these last weeks, my mind has been full of my father. I can’t remember, but I think I may have said some unforgivable things to you . . .”
“You were hurt,” she said.
He studied his glass of champagne. “Yes.”
“And I was a fool.”
He looked up at her. “You were?”
She nodded. “There is nothing like a life-and-death experience to strip away everything that is not essential. That’s what happened to me when I climbed those three flights of rickety stairs in the poorhouse, with hardly any light, guided only by the sound of your voice.”
Her voice was low and she spoke slowly. “I learned then that nothing can ever separate us, not the claims of our families, our unborn children, or society, or anything under the sun. Life is too short. Time is precious. I don’t want to waste it. I don’t want second best. I want you.
“I wasn’t going to let Gideon Piers take you away from me, not after all we’d been through to claim our love. I knew in those moments of fear for you that I had to kill Gideon or be killed.” She captured his free hand and brought it to her lips. “You told me once you had killed with your bare hands. I understood how you felt then. If I’d had the strength, I would have killed Gideon with my bare hands if I had to.”
When she looked up at him, he let out a deep, shaken breath. “You can’t know how much those words mean to me.”
He plucked the glass of champagne from her fingers, set both glasses on the table, and pulled her to the bed.
“What?” She was laughing at his haste. “Don’t I get some pretty words in return?”
He began to undress her. “Yes. I’ve been meaning to say this to you for some time.” His voice rose by several notches. “Don’t ever try anything like that again! I damn near died when I saw you creep up on Piers with that silly little pistol clutched in your hand. He could have killed you! Think how I would have felt!”
She looped her arms around his neck. “But my darling, that’s precisely my point. I didn’t have a choice. And if our positions were reversed, neither would you.”
“You’re right. But knowing you’re right doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Is this the finesse you promised me?”
“I don’t think of finesse when I make love to you.”
She said archly, “Just what do you think of when you make love to me?”
“You. Only you.”
“It’s the same for me. I want to forget all the ugliness. Help me forget.”
Arms wrapped around each other, they sank onto the bed. The last, loverlike words he said to her before coherent speech became impossible were, “I’m going to get you a proper pistol to replace that toy.”
She knew what he meant. “I love you, too,” she said.
A month later, when they were on honeymoon in Aboyne in Scotland, Jane received this letter from her friend Sally Latham:
Dearest Jane,
The most amazing thing has happened. I’m engaged to a wonderful man, John Chalbury of Stanton Hall. It happened exactly as you said it would.
Who would believe it?
“Almost a princess” doesn’t do you justice. You’re
the most amazing woman, a seer, a prophetess, and
the best friend a girl ever had.
I hope you’re as happy as I am, my dear, dear
countess.
Your devoted friend,
Sally
Author’s Note
Special Branch, in my story, comes from my imagination, and is inspired by the real Special Branch (Irish), which did not come into existence until 1883. It was set up in Scotland Yard and was a police force within a police force, established to combat terrorism.
Come to the next page for a peek at Elizabeth Thornton’s next spellbinding romance. . . .
SHADY LADY
On sale now
Prologue
April 1817: Brinsley Hall, Oxfordshire
He knew the precise moment that a stray comment from one of the other guests struck a chord in her infallible memory. Something shifted in her eyes, not suspicion, not comprehension.
Speculation
would be closer to the word he wanted. Then the look was gone. But he knew Chloë. She had stored the tidbit of information away for future reference.
He had to kill her before she worked everything out.
He had killed before and would kill again to protect his own. He couldn’t afford to be squeamish, and he couldn’t afford to waste time, not in this case. She had to be silenced before she broadcast her suspicions to the world.
It was time to go to bed. Footmen were on hand with candles to light the way upstairs. No one lingered. The house party was over. Some guests had already left. Everyone else was packed and ready to leave first thing in the morning.
Once in his bedchamber, he lay on his bed, fully dressed, with his hands behind his neck, listening to the sounds of the house settling in for the night. He waited half an hour, got up and left his room.
After dismissing the maid, Chloë sat down at the escritoire, opened her diary and began to make notes on the dinner just past. She described the menu, the china, the guests—what they wore, how they looked and what they said. There were influential people with friends in high places. There had been quite a bit of name dropping, and she duly noted that too.
One conversation in particular stayed in her mind, something Lady Langston had said. As the memory came back to her, her hand trembled and she put down her pen. Thoughts chased themselves in quick succession through her mind. It hardly seemed possible. Her memory might be at fault. She couldn’t accuse anyone without checking on a few facts. But if she was right, she could be in mortal danger.
A moment before, she’d felt quite warm. Now she was chilled to the bone.
Her whole body jerked when someone knocked softly on the door.
“Chloë?”
His voice!
“I want to talk to you. Open the door, Chloë.”
Not in a month of Sundays!
Moving swiftly, she crossed to the window and closed the drapes, then she sat down at the escritoire and rummaged in one of the drawers for paper. The box of stationery that she found was of the best quality vellum and had Lord Brinsley’s coat of arms stamped on each page. In other circumstances she would have been impressed. The thought wrung a shaky sob from her.
It took her only a moment or two to write what she had to say. She hoped, prayed, that this letter would be redundant, that she’d live to tell the tale herself. She didn’t want to involve Jo, but there was no one else she could turn to now.
Lord Brinsley had offered to frank his guests’ letters. All they had to do was leave them on the hall table.
Maybe she was panicking for nothing. Maybe she should invite him in to talk things over.
The doorknob rattled. “Chloë, I know you’re still up. I saw the light under your door. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Just a moment.”
Christ Jesus! He must think she was a simpleton!
She locked her diary in the escritoire and left her letter on the mantelpiece, hoping that the maid would take care of it for her. Snatching up her cloak, she glided soundlessly through the door to the servants’ staircase.
As she descended the stairs, her mind worked like lightning. If she screamed at the top of her lungs, would anyone hear her? And if they heard her, would they get to her in time? Would they believe her? Where should she go and what should she do?
She left the house by the back door. After a few steps she halted, giving her eyes time to adjust to the dark. Her skin prickled. She wasn’t alone.
A shadowy figure stepped in front of her. “Chloë?” he said. There was a smile in his voice.
His hands reached for her throat.
She ducked beneath his outstretched arms and began to run.
Chapter 1
I should have known you would be a woman.” Jo Chesney, publisher and proprietor of the Avon Journal, looked up with a start. She was in her office, at her desk, studying the latest edition of the newspaper, hot off the press, and was taken aback by the stranger’s presence as much as by his offensive words. This was Friday, the day they got the paper out. She hadn’t time for interruptions.
Her first thought was that he was an actor. He had that look—tall, dark and dramatic rather than handsome. He had presence. And this was, after all, Stratford-upon-Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace, and the theater season was still in full swing.
She wasn’t unduly alarmed when he took a step toward her. There were plenty of people about, and Mac Nevin, the managing editor, was in his office across the hall, or in Dispatch. All she had to do was call out and someone would come running.
All the same, she was aware that he had her at a disadvantage. For one thing, he was immaculately turned out and she was dressed in her working clothes. For another, he was looming over her like a great beast of prey. She evened the odds by getting to her feet.
Obviously he was laboring under a misunderstanding. He must have entered the wrong building and mistaken her for someone else. Misunderstanding or no, she took exception to his insulting manner and tone of voice. She was a respectable lady who also happened to run a successful business. No one talked to her like that.
Her gaze as chilly as his own, she said, “These are the offices of the
Avon Journal.
If you’ve lost your way, I’d be happy to give you directions.”
“I haven’t lost my way. You are J. S. Chesney, I presume, the owner of this scurrilous piece of refuse?”
She hadn’t noticed that he had a copy of the
Journal
tucked under one arm, not until he tossed it on the desk.
Scurrilous piece of refuse.
If he wasn’t an actor, he must be a politician. No normal person spoke like that. He was trying to be offensive. He couldn’t have known how well he was succeeding. The
Journal
was more than a paper to Jo. It was her late husband’s price and joy. When John died, it seemed that the
Journal
would die with him. She wouldn’t allow it. Against everyone’s advice she’d stepped into the breach and kept the paper going. In her mind John and the
Journal
were inseparable.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Chesney. I own the
Journal.
What did we do, misspell your name? Give you a bad review?”
“A bad—” His brows slashed together. “You think I’m an actor?”
Obviously not, but since the idea seemed to annoy him, she added fuel to the fire. “You certainly look the part.” She studied him for a moment. “You could pass yourself off as the hero if you stopped glaring and minded your manners.”
For a moment she thought she’d gone too far. His lips compressed, but only momentarily. He said slowly, “I was right. You don’t know me at all, do you, Mrs. Chesney?”
“Should I?”
“You write about me as though you know me . . . intimately.”
She didn’t like his choice of words. But whether the innuendo was deliberate or unintentional was debatable. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
She lifted her chin a notch. “If you have a complaint, I suggest you talk to Mr. Nevin, our managing editor. I’m the publisher. I don’t have control of everything that goes in the paper.”
“A typical female response! If all else fails, find some man to bail you out of your difficulties. Oh, no, Mrs. Chesney. Your name is on every edition of the
Journal
—J. S. Chesney. You’re the one who will pay the toll, unless, of course, you have no money of your own. Then your husband, poor devil, will be held to account for your misconduct.”
She wanted to lash out and annihilate him with a few well-chosen words. What stopped her was the sudden realization that he was serious. This sounded like litigation, the courts, punitive damages. She had to hear him out.
“I don’t stand in any man’s shadow,” she said quietly. “I’m a widow, as I’m sure you’ve already discovered.”
“No, I didn’t know.” He seemed to be hesitating, as though he were about to apologize, but went on instead. “It doesn’t make any difference. I want this stopped.”
He reached out and flipped the
Journal
over so that she was staring down at the back page. “London Life,” the heading blazed. This was fairly new, an unapologetic commentary on the comings and goings of London’s rich and famous. Readers, it seemed, even those who lived as far afield as Stratford-upon-Avon, couldn’t get enough of these celebrities—what they wore, what they ate, where they lived, what they did.
It was her friend Chloë who had come up with the idea, and Chloë who wrote the rough copy and sent it by express from London every week. She was ideally suited for the job. Though now a widow, Chloë had married well and moved in the upper reaches of polite society.
Polite society, according to Chloë, was anything but polite, except on the surface. Beneath the surface raged dangerous currents, explosive passions, tempestuous liaisons. In short, Chloë said with a laugh, everything that made life interesting. And every week she shared the salacious secrets of the rich and famous with the Journal ’s readers.
Since the inception of “London Life,” the Journal ’s circulation had soared.
Now Jo understood. The irate stranger must be one of Chloë’s glamorous celebrities, and he had obviously taken exception to what Chloë had written about him. But which one was he?
She sank into her chair, rested her linked fingers on the desk and made a slow perusal. She saw an athletically built man in his early thirties, immaculately turned out in a black coat and beige trousers. She couldn’t see his boots, but she knew they would be Hessions, possibly with gold tassels, and polished to a mirror shine. His hair was dark, but it wasn’t black. There were shades of mahogany in those crisp locks that brushed his collar. On his left cheek, close to his mouth, was a small scar. But most telling of all, and something she
should
have noticed and
would
have noticed if she hadn’t felt under attack, was that he was leaning heavily on a cane that had a distinctive silver handle.
“You’re Waldo Bowman!” she declared.
When he inclined his head in acknowledgment, the small knot of tension between her shoulder blades gradually receded. He might look reckless and dangerous, but according to Chloë the only thing he was guilty of was taking advantage of the fact that he was irresistible to women. A breaker of hearts, Chloë called him, but she said it without malice. She admired Waldo Bowman.
Chloë had a fondness for rakes that Jo did not share.
He was studying her with as much interest as she studied him. She knew she looked a frump in her work clothes, with her awful red hair swept severely off her face and tied back with a ribbon. She hoped it was a ribbon and not a piece of string. She wasn’t going to apologize for how she looked. Getting a paper out was a messy business. There was no reason for her to feel awkward or embarrassed.
There were ink stains on her fingers. She resisted the impulse to wipe them surreptitously on her dress.
Her eyes jerked up to meet his. “I didn’t hear that. What did you say?”
There was a short silence while he regarded her thoughtfully. At last he said, “You don’t move in my circles, so I know you are not the author of this scandal sheet.” He shook the paper. “Her name, Mrs. Chesney. Give me her name, and you and I shall be quits.”
She shook her head. “My sources are confidential. You won’t get his or her name out of me.”
“It has to be a female.”
“Why?”
“Because only a female would be interested in such drivel.”
Her only response was to raise an eyebrow.
He splayed one hand on the desk. His eyes had chilled by several degrees. “Let there be no misunderstanding between us. I won’t tolerate having my name bandied about in a second-rate broadsheet that can only appeal to the vulgarly curious. Have you no conscience? Or is your only object to sell papers?”
The reference to her conscience left her unmoved. It was the word
broadsheet
that fanned the flames of her temper. Broadsheets were one-page news sheets and were lurid beyond belief, and generally despised by intelligent people. He had delivered the ultimate insult.
When she rose to confront him, two spots of color burned in her cheeks. He had the foresight to take a step back before she rounded the desk.
Her voice was low and trembling with anger. “I publish the news, Mr. Bowman, and you happen to be news just like”—she snatched the newspaper from the desk and held up the front page—“just like William Hogg, who murdered his wife and buried her body under the floor of his barn. So don’t talk to me about conscience. If you had one, you wouldn’t appear in my paper.”
His eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “You’re comparing me to a murderer?”
“Of course not! The point I’m trying to make is that you’ve developed a following. My readers want to hear about you, just as they want to hear about the Duke of Wellington or the Prince Regent.”
“You never write anything derogatory about them.”
“I don’t publish anything derogatory about anyone, not even Mr. Hogg. I publish the truth.”
An insolent smile curled his lips. “The truth as you see it.”
She mimicked his smile exactly. “Correct me if I’m wrong. Did you or did you not present your latest flirt with an emerald pendant when you ended the affair?” His jaw seemed to have locked, so she went on deliberately, “And did you or did you not only last week fight a duel with Lord Hornsby in Hyde Park?”
He unlocked his jaw. “If you print that in your paper, I’ll sue you for defamation of character!”
“Hah! You’d lose! How can I defame the character of a rake?” She folded her arms under her breasts and stared doggedly into his face, challenging him to contradict her.
He moved his cane to his other hand and studied her face. Gradually the heat died out of his eyes and he began to look amused. “You’re not going to print the story of our duel?”
“No.”
“Not to save me embarrassment, I’ll wager. Then it must be to protect Hornsby. Do you mind telling me why?”
“I wouldn’t lift a finger to protect Hornsby.”
“Then why—”
She said impatiently, “Lady Hornsby has been shamed enough by her husband’s indiscretions. I’ve no wish to add to her humiliation.”
“You don’t want to shame Lady Hornsby,” he said slowly, “but it’s all right to shame my relations?”
“You’re not married.”
“I have a mother and sisters.”
“It’s not the same.”
“How is it different?”
“The difference is . . .” she floundered a little, “the difference is . . .”
“Yes?”
“Oh, you know what the difference is. Your indiscretions can’t hurt a mother or sister the way they can hurt a wife.”
His voice rose fractionally. “At the risk of sounding rude, may I point out that I’m not married.”
“No,” she said, warming to her subject, “and that’s all to the good. Let’s be frank. You’re hardly a matrimonial prize, Mr. Bowman. All the same, innocent young girls and others who should know better are thrilled when you make them the object of your attentions. Each thinks that she will be the one to reform you. They’re all doomed to disappointment.”
“I don’t want to be reformed!”
“Of course you don’t. Bad boys never do. And if those London debutantes and their foolish mothers would only read the
Journal,
they’d soon come to realize that your case is hopeless.”
She didn’t think he was angry, but something had darkened his eyes, something quick and dangerous. When he snagged her wrist, she sucked in a breath.
“That sounds like a challenge,” he said.
He wasn’t wearing gloves, and the heat of his fingers on her bare skin was highly unsettling. In polite society, members of the opposite sex did not touch each other in this intimate manner unless they were closely related.
Intimate!
That word again! She shivered for no apparent reason.
“What?” She’d lost the thread of their conversation.
He was no longer amused but frowning faintly. “You’re trembling.”
“No. I think it’s you.”
It was a lie, but the best she could come up with to save face. She wasn’t going to give him something to laugh about.
It was that thought that kept her from crying out when he tugged on her wrist and brought her closer. He grinned, lethally, and with a will of its own her pulse began to flutter.
He said softly, “If I kiss you, will you write about it in your paper?”
“No,” she managed in a credibly calm tone. “I’ll shoot you.”
He laughed and let her go. “A word of advice, Mrs. Chesney. If you want to preserve your good name, don’t take mine in vain.”
She took the precaution of hiding her hands in the folds of her gown. “Are you threatening to spread lies about me?”
“You do have a low opinion of my character, don’t you? No. I was thinking of the Journal’s good name. If I sue and you lose, your paper will be discredited.”
“I won’t lose.”
His lips quirked. “Is that another challenge?”
They were interrupted when the door opened to admit a young gentleman, also in the height of fashion, whom Jo knew quite well. Henry Gardiner, at thirty-two, was the most eligible bachelor in the county, largely because his father, Sir Robert,
owned
half the county, or so the locals claimed.
“Waldo!” exclaimed the newcomer. “Ruggles said this would only take five minutes. What’s keeping you?” He turned to Jo with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, but our coach is waiting, and the wedding can’t go forward without my friend here.”
For some odd reason Jo had been feeling that Mr. Gardiner had caught her red-handed. On hearing his last remark, however, she brightened considerably.
“Wedding?” she said, eyeing Waldo speculatively. “Who is the lucky lady?”
A look of amusement crossed Waldo’s face. “You’re way off the mark, Mrs. Chesney. I’m not getting married.”