Jacquie D'Alessandro (2 page)

Pacing the confines
of the small private office off an alcove near the vestry at St. Paul’s, Philip Whitmore, Viscount Greybourne, prayed for all he was worth that his bride would not show up.

His stomach cramping with tension, he pulled his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted the time. Mere minutes remained before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Would Lady Sarah come?
God help me if she does
.

Damn it all, what an utterly impossible situation this was. Had he made Lady Sarah understand? He’d only had that one opportunity to speak privately with her, when he’d dined at her father’s townhouse the evening before last. Due to her suffering a fall earlier in the day and subsequently finding herself the victim of a vicious headache, she had not joined the party for dinner. He squeezed his eyes shut.
First the fall and then the headache.
Bloody hell, he’d feared it would come to this.

After dinner, however, Lady Sarah had made an appearance. Following several minutes of small talk, he’d suggested she show him the gallery, and she’d obliged. And he’d taken the opportunity to tell her…warn her. She’d listened to his tale with what appeared to be merely polite interest, and at the end of his recitation had murmured, “How…interesting. I shall think upon it,” then
had excused herself, claiming the headache. When he’d called upon her yesterday he’d been informed by the butler that she still suffered the headache and was not receiving visitors. He’d tried to speak to her father, but the duke was not at home. Philip had left a note for his grace, but had not received a reply, indicating he’d obviously arrived home too late to respond. And Philip had spent the remainder of his time at the warehouse, searching through the numerous crates for the one item that could bring salvation. He’d been unsuccessful, which meant that one way or another, this day was about to take a very unpleasant turn.

Surely someone would send word to him soon, or Lady Sarah would herself arrive. Or not arrive. He raked his hands through his hair and tugged on his confining cravat. Either way, he was damned. Honor demanded that he marry Lady Sarah. But honor also demanded that he not. Her image rose in his mind’s eye. Such a lovely young woman. The thought of taking her for his wife should have pleased him enormously. Instead the very idea cramped his insides with dread.

A knock sounded, and he quickly strode to the door and opened it. His father entered the room, and Philip closed the door behind him with a soft click. Turning, he met his father’s gaze and waited for him to speak. The signs of Father’s illness were starkly visible in the ribbon of sunlight streaming through the window. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and his complexion was sallow and pale. He was considerably thinner than when Philip had left England, his face bordering on gaunt, the shadow of circles staining dark gray beneath his eyes.

But those eyes remained unchanged. Piercing blue and rapier-sharp, they could cut with a single frigid glance—as Philip knew all too well. Gray strands marked his temples, but his ebony hair remained thick. He looked like an older, tired, paler version of the hearty man from a decade
earlier. A man with whom Philip had shared little other than cold silence and tension after Philip’s mother’s death—a situation made all the more painful as he and Father had enjoyed a warmer relationship prior to Mother’s death. A man who had made a deal with Philip, one that had afforded him the opportunity to pursue his dreams, albeit only until “someday,” asking only one thing in return.

Father had not reacted well when he learned it was the one thing Philip could not give him.

His father walked slowly toward him, his eyes taking in every aspect of Philip’s appearance. He halted when only two feet separated them. A wealth of memories hit Philip like a blow, rushing images through his mind, ending, as thoughts of Father always did, with the reverberation of his quiet, condemning words:
A man is only as good as his word, Philip. If you’d kept yours, your mother wouldn’t have—

“The ceremony is about to begin,” Father said, his expression unreadable.

“I know.”

“Unfortunately, your bride has not yet arrived.”

Thank God
. “I see.”

“You told her.” The words were a statement, not a question.

“I did.”

“We’d agreed that you would not.”

“No. You
requested
that I not tell her. I never agreed that I wouldn’t.” Philip’s hands clenched at his sides. “I
had
to tell her. She had the right to know.”

“Did you tell Lord Hedington as well?”

Philip shook his head. “Lady Sarah requested that I not, at least not until she’d thought upon the matter.”

“Well, with each passing minute without her here, it becomes clearer what her thoughts on the matter were.”

Philip could only hope his father was correct.

Meredith stood in the shadows cast by the columns in the marble-tiled vestibule of St. Paul’s, trying her very best to look dignified and contain her excitement, praying she did not resemble a child with her face pressed against the window at the confectioner’s shop. A procession of elegant carriages wended their way toward the magnificent west entrance of the cathedral, dispensing Society’s finest for the wedding of Lady Sarah Markham and Viscount Greybourne. A hum of excited whispers echoed from the throng of guests entering the church, their voices swallowed by the swell of organ music as they passed Meredith. She caught snatches of their words as they glided by.

“…heard Greybourne was nearly killed during an altercation with some tribe of…”

“…supposedly wants to start his own museum with some American colleague….”

“His importing business venture is rumored to be wildly successful….”

“Amazing that he managed to snare Lady Sarah, what with his odd interests and that scandalous debacle three years ago….”

On and on they came, all of Society’s finest, walking through the magnificent columned entrance to proceed down the nave, passing under the architectural splendor of the dome, until over five hundred guests filled St. Paul’s pews. All except the one guest Meredith most particularly wanted to see.

Where was the bride?

Dear God, she hoped Lady Sarah was not still suffering from that tumble at the dressmaker’s. No, surely not. If so, her father would have sent word. Meredith had been most anxious to speak to Lady Sarah yesterday, to find out how her meeting with Lord Greybourne had gone the evening before. But when she’d called upon her in the early afternoon, Lord Hedington had informed her that Lady Sarah was unable to receive visitors due to the lingering
headache. Meredith’s alarm clearly showed, for Lord Hedington had quickly assured her that Lady Sarah had taken a restorative tisane and, after some much-needed sleep, would be perfectly fit for the wedding. He reported that Lady Sarah and Lord Greybourne had spent over an hour together touring the gallery the evening before, and had gotten along “smashingly well,” news that calmed a tiny fraction of Meredith’s jitters. In addition, he said that in spite of his disheveled clothing and abominable cravat—which would surely be solved after employing a proper valet—Lord Greybourne seemed a decent sort of fellow.

Thank goodness. Not that she’d had the opportunity to meet the groom herself and put her own fears to rest. Oh, she’d tried, without success, to meet with Lord Greybourne to assess what, if any, last-minute emergency etiquette lessons he might require, but the man had remained as elusive as fog. He’d responded to her trio of calls upon him with a trio of terse notes stating that he was “busy.”

Busy? What on earth could be keeping him so busy he couldn’t take a quarter hour out of his schedule to see her? Busy seeing to his own pleasures, no doubt. Rudeness, that’s all it was.

The cathedral’s clock struck the hour. The ceremony was now scheduled to begin.

And still no sign of the bride.

A cold chill of unease slithered down her spine, a sensation not the least relieved by Lord Hedington striding into the vestibule, his brows bunched into a severe frown. Meredith emerged from the shadows.

“Your grace, are you certain Lady Sarah was feeling well?”

“She claimed she felt fine, but I’m worried, I admit. The chit is never late. Prides herself on her promptness, unlike most females.” He shook his head. “I should never
have agreed to come to the church without her, but she was so insistent—” His words broke off, and he heaved a sigh of clear relief. “Here comes the Hedington carriage now. Thank goodness.”

Meredith looked out the door and relief rushed through her at the sight of the elegant black coach, drawn by four matching grays. The coachman halted the carriage in the cathedral’s curved drive, and a liveried footman hopped down and trotted up the steps.

“Your grace,” the young man said, “I have a message for Lord Greybourne.” He held out a wax-sealed envelope. “Lady Sarah instructed me to deliver it just before the ceremony was to begin.”

“Lady Sarah instructed you?” The duke looked over the footman’s shoulder toward the coach. “Where
is
Lady Sarah?”

The footman’s eyes rounded. “Is she not here? She departed for St. Paul’s only moments after you left, your grace.”

“But if you have the carriage, what did she travel in?” the duke asked, his voice tight.

“Baron Weycroft called, your grace,” the footman reported, “Lady Sarah, along with her abigail, departed with him in his coach.”

The duke’s expression turned to one of confusion. “Weycroft, you say? I’ve not seen him, either. Well, at least she is not alone, although it’s deuced odd that they’ve not arrived. Ye gods, I hope they haven’t broken a wheel or some such.”

“We did not pass them on the road here, your grace,” the footman said, his countenance as confused and concerned as the duke’s.

“The note,” Meredith said, nodding toward the vellum, and pushing down her rising sense of dread. “Let us deliver it to Lord Greybourne at once. Surely it will offer the answers we seek.”

A knock sounded at the door and Philip and his father exchanged a glance. Unease slithered through Philip. Had Lady Sarah arrived? “Come in,” he said.

The door opened and Lord Hedington stalked into the room, every line of his body bristling with obvious tension and concern. With his bushy brows, jowly cheeks, oversized ears, and the folds of skin drooping under his protruding eyes, Lord Hedington bore a striking, and remarkably unfortunate, resemblance to a hound. An unfamiliar woman, fashionably garbed in a dark blue gown, remained standing in the open doorway. Her gaze panned the room, as if looking for someone else, then their gazes met. Philip fancied that confusion, and then surprise, flared in her eyes.

“May I assist you, Miss…?”

Color washed over her cheeks, and she performed a quick curtsy. “I am Miss Meredith Chilton-Grizedale, my lord. I am—”

“She’s the matchmaker who arranged for you to marry my daughter,” Lord Hedington said in a tight voice from behind Philip.

Philip stared at her, certain he failed to hide his surprise. Upon hearing his father talk about the formidable Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he’d formed a mental picture of a stern, gray-haired, grandmotherly sort that in no way resembled this young woman standing before him. Pushing his glasses higher on his nose, he noted that she appeared as surprised as he. He was staring, but couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from her. And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Obviously due to his surprise, for she certainly was not a woman one would ever call beautiful. Her features were too irregular. Too unconventional.

Recalling himself, he offered her a formal bow. “A pleasure to meet you, miss.” After she entered the room,
Philip closed the door behind her, then turned toward Lord Hedington. “Has Lady Sarah arrived?”

The duke raised his quizzing glass, thus now resembling a hound with one magnified eye, and peered at Philip. “No,” said Lord Hedington, “and she certainly should have, as she departed for St. Paul’s over an hour ago.” He thrust out his hand. “But she sent this note to you. It just arrived. I demand you open it at once and tell me what the devil is going on.”

Philip took the envelope and stared at it for several long seconds. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, prayed his relief did not show, then forced his gaze upward from the vellum. Three pairs of eyes stared at him with varying degrees of distress. His father appeared more than a bit suspicious. Lady Sarah’s father appeared worried. And Miss Meredith Chilton-Grizedale appeared deeply troubled.

Philip broke the seal. The slight crackling of the vellum as he unfolded it echoed in the silent room. Drawing a deep breath, he lowered his gaze to the paper.

Philip had barely finished scanning the few lines when Lord Hedington tapped his quizzing glass upon the vellum and demanded, “For God’s sake, what does she write? Is she all right?”

Philip raised his gaze and met the duke’s eyes. “Yes, your grace.”

“Then why the devil is she not here? Where is she?”

Calm descended over Philip, and he drew his first easy breath in what seemed like months. She’d jilted him. Thank God. “I do not know exactly where she is, but she does not wish for you to worry about her safety. Still, I believe the main point is that she is not here. Nor is she coming.”