The Wedding Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Edith Layton and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The Wedding

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  The Wedding

  By Edith Layton

  Copyright 2017 by Estate of Edith Felber

  Cover Copyright 2017 by Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover Design by Ginny Glass

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 1995.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by Edith Layton and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The Duke’s Wager

  The Disdainful Marquis

  The Mysterious Heir

  Red Jack’s Daughter

  Lord of Dishonor

  Peaches and the Queen

  False Angel

  The Indian Maiden

  Lady of Spirit

  www.untreedreads.com

  The Wedding

  Edith Layton

  CHAPTER 1

  London, 1753

  He thought he’d never laugh again. But when he looked up from the cobbles as he walked the gray streets of the city, he saw the man in front of him lose his hair—all at once.

  There was nothing unusual about the fellow’s fine curled gray bagwig, but Crispin’s uninterested gaze suddenly sharpened when the wig began to waver on the man’s head. As he watched, fascinated, he saw it slew a little to one side, droop to the other, and then all at once, as if realizing its ability to fly, stretch, rise on end, and then soar straight up into the gray sky of London Town. The gentleman, now as bald as a newborn, clapped his hands over his bare skull and screeched, “Thief! Thief!”—which showed he was a Londoner, for this had obviously happened to him before. While he shouted, his wig continued to rise like a slightly soiled dove into the grimy heavens. Laughter rose in Crispin’s throat, shocking him into actually seeing the world around him again.

  He glanced up just in time to see the wig thief silhouetted against the gray London sky as the boy bolted from his hiding place beside a chimneypot. Crispin watched the slight lad as he leaped onto the next rooftop, still carrying the fishing rod and line that he had used to snag his prize, and clutching the stolen wig tightly to his narrow chest as though he were a shepherd and it, a tender lambkin.

  “Ho! There ’e is, the villain!” a fishmonger shouted, pointing. The men and women on the street looked up and saw the thief. They began running in pursuit, the shadow of the boy dancing his escape above them.

  Crispin followed, laughing. It was a ridiculous thing to be doing, but the boy was nimble and clearly knew his rooftop passage well, and thief or not, he looked so merry and carefree that Crispin was entirely on his side. He followed anyway, because the hunt was on, the chase was up, and as long as he was running he couldn’t brood about his fate.

  An ill-assorted mob was soon lumbering down the street with him, staring upward and running onward. Costermongers, shopkeepers, ragmen, servant girls, and matrons all bobbed down the street as if swept along by some unseen current in the wake of the leaping, laughing lad so high above them. Crispin’s long legs made such great strides that he soon led the pack. And just as soon he found that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to run freer and farther. He wanted to shrug off his stiff brocade coat, rip open his constricting vest, kick off his shoes, and fly down the dirty streets the way he’d run along the sweet hillsides and meadows as a boy. But he was a man now, and this was London. If he was fool enough to discard any garment in this neighborhood, it would be pounced on, stolen, and sold twice over before he could catch his breath.

  He didn’t mind losing his breath if it kept him from thinking of anything except the blood beating in his veins as he ran. He saw the boy turn and caper along a rooftop that led down a narrow alley, and he followed, with the mob tagging along behind him.

  He was almost at the end of his endurance, with the crowd far behind, to judge from the echoes of their cries, when he lost sight of the boy. He stopped, his breath sawing in his chest, and stared upward. He saw chimneypots and clouds and an occasional wheeling gull…but no sign of the boy or the wig. The boy might have dropped down on the rooftop to hide and wait the mob out, but judging from the merry dance he’d led them, Crispin guessed that the imp had taken a leap in a different direction. While Crispin bent, hands on knees, recovering his breath, the mob thundered past him, continuing its pursuit. Before long he was left alone except for the echoes of their angry cries. Or so he thought.

  He straightened at last, his breathing again normal. His blood cooled and his spirits plummeted. Once more he found himself alone with the real world and all his woes. He sighed. At least this was a loss in a good cause. Even though he had enjoyed the chase, he wished the little thief well; he realized that the theft of a man’s wig would likely have cost the boy his head if he’d been caught. This way at least the wig would serve two masters; it would cover a new head, and the price for it would fill the lad’s stomach.

  Crispin smiled at the thought, buttoned his vest, pulled up his crumpled hose, straightened his coat, and began to retrace his steps—until he saw a movement. It was only a slight shifting of shape seen through the corner of his eye as he passed an alley. But he had been a real hunter, and a good one, once upon a time, when he’d had time for leisure and the pleasures of real sport. He stopped, patting his pockets as though checking to see if he’d lost anything out of them. He glanced around as he did. There was no one else in sight. In this crowded slum, that was rare enough to be miraculous. Everyone else was in full cry after the thief. Crispin quickly stepped into the alley.

  The stench in the narrow alley was overwhelming. Most things that would have been garbage in a better district weren’t thrown away here; like the inhabitants of the slum itself, anything that had an ounce of life left in it was used for something. Only real garbage, waste and debris too rank and worn to be of use to anything but mold and rats, lay in piles at the base of the buildings. But Crispin had seen a part of one of the piles move—a small brown tattered sleeve of it.

  “You might as well come out,” he remarked casually. “That mess you’re hiding under will kill you faster than the mob will.”

  He spoke to the air, and got no answer.

  “If I’d wanted to turn you in, I would have called them down on you by now, wouldn’t I?” he asked impatiently. “Your arm is show
ing,” he added helpfully, when he still got no answer, “and I refuse to so much as touch that vile muck you’ve buried yourself in.”

  “Right,” a thin voice finally answered. “Yeah, too right. I don’t blame you neither, sir. I’d be out of it like a shot myself if I could,” the voice from the garbage said weakly.

  Crispin braced himself and bent to the task before him. He ignored what he saw, the way he wished he could ignore what he smelled, and managed to remove much of the garbage, grimacing at what he might find there aside from the thief. But the eyes he suddenly found himself staring into were as desperate and terrified as any cornered rat’s. They were indigo and hard and assessing beneath their panic. They were too old to belong to the thin boy Crispin had unearthed. He recognized at least one emotion in those eyes, and wished he hadn’t.

  “I wouldn’t run if I were you,” Crispin said quietly. “There might be worse than me at the alley’s end.”

  “Naw. Right. Couldn’t bolt,” the boy said with bitterness, dropping the thick stick he’d raised. “Done my leg, I did, with that fall.”

  “Broken?” Crispin asked, reaching toward the thin leg beneath the filthy trousers.

  “Think so,” the boy said, wincing as Crispin prodded with gentle hands. “I can wiggle my toes, leastwise.”

  “Ah, well, if it is broken, at least it’s a clean break,” Crispin murmured, sitting back on his haunches and staring at the boy. “But now what’s to do, I wonder?” he muttered to himself.

  “To do?” the boy asked in astonishment, “God, take the wig, it’s yours fair ’n’ square. Bring a pretty penny, it will, too,” he said wistfully, looking down at the wig he still clutched to his chest. “Only don’t rat on me, sir, and make it up to you. I will, I promise. Willie Grab pays his debts, he does, you can be sure.”

  Despite himself, Crispin grinned again. The gray curls he saw protruding from the top of the urchin’s shirt made unlikely chest hair.

  “I don’t want the wig, boy,” he said, then stopped. He heard other voices coming near. He stood swiftly, positioning himself so his shadow fell over the boy. Crispin was tall and lean, but he was all muscle, so he cast a formidable shadow. He planted his feet apart, put his hands on his hips, and stared down the long alley.

  A group of the boy’s pursuers paused at the mouth of the alley and saw Crispin standing there. They hesitated.

  Crispin glowered at them. He was dressed like a gentleman, yet with his breadth of shoulder and length of leg, he didn’t look like the sort of man anyone would want to meet in an alley. And he looked angry—very angry. But not at them, it seemed.

  “Ho!” a burly man finally called to him. “Have you found the villain, sir?”

  “No, but I saw her run through here and then simply vanish!” Crispin said indignantly.

  “Her?” one of them shouted. “Who the devil is she, sir?”

  “Why, the wretch who robbed me,” Crispin said. “She took my kisses and said she was taking me to her room, but she only brought me here, and then she vanished—with my purse! I looked away for only a moment… I can’t find a sign of her. Have you seen her? A pretty little piece, about sixteen, I’d say: a prime bit, all golden curls and with eyes as blue as a summer sky. She was wearing red, and her hat had a red feather in it, too,” he added hopefully.

  “If you looked away while doing yer trousers up again, then I’d say it were a fair cop, and more power to her,” the man said, and the group with him laughed.

  “I say!” Crispin said with a show of anger. “There’s no call for mockery, fellow! Anyway, she took my whole purse, and she certainly wasn’t worth it!”

  They guffawed and, still laughing, left him standing in the alley.

  “We’ll wait until dark, I think,” Crispin said to the boy.

  “You wouldn’t want to be here at dark, sir,” the boy said, struggling up from the garbage again. “Naw. Just get me a crutch I can hobble on, and I’ll be gone.”

  “Certainly, to the gallows,” Crispin said in annoyance. “There are a hundred people out there looking for you, boy.”

  “Naw, there’s a hunnerd lookin’ for a thief sir. Not for me. Get me a crutch and you’ll see. There’s a little shop two streets from here,” the boy said with desperation, “two streets to the right. It ain’t far, honest. It says Gentle’s over the door. Anyways, even if it don’t, everybody knows it. Just ask for old Watt. He’ll have a walking stick, cheap. You don’t have to put a penny down. Just ask for a crutch—an old one, mind—and say it’s for me, Willie Grab, and he’ll give it to you quick. He knows I’m as good as my word. Bring it to me, if you please, sir, and I’ll be fine. I will, you’ll see. I’ll make it worth your while. Make it up to you, I promise.”

  He wasn’t sure why he did it, but Crispin nodded. He left the alley and made his way to the shop the boy had told him about. He found it quickly. The sign above the door read “Gentle’s,” but more likely it had once read “Gentlemen’s…” something, in its long distant past. The window was too dirty to see clearly into the shop, so Crispin opened the door and entered.

  “May I help you, sir?” an old and dusty male voice said from somewhere behind the dingy counter.

  “Ah, Willie Grab asked that I get him an old crutch. He’d said you’d have one, and that he’d make it up to you,” Crispin said, so fascinated by the way he was actually doing what the boy asked that he failed to be surprised by how quickly his words produced a result.

  A crutch slid over the counter. It was scarred and warped, and its cross brace was reinforced by a grimy rag wound over it, but it looked as though it could still bear weight.

  “Thank you. I’m sure Willie will be pleased,” Crispin said as he inspected the crutch.

  “Tell young Will it’s tallied. But the less said, the better,” the old voice said, and when he heard no other sound, Crispin was sure he had been left alone.

  He made his way back to the alley.

  “Ah, that’s the ticket!” the boy cried when he saw the stick. He struggled upright, wincing with pain, but he grinned when Crispin helped him place the stick under his arm.

  “Now, then,” the boy said in a brisk businesslike fashion, “my mug’s too famous to be seen. Have to dirty it before I take a step further.”

  Crispin would have sworn there wasn’t room for any more dirt on that thin, pinched face, but a few handfuls of earth from the alley soon obscured most of it, except for a wide, cocky grin.

  “I’m a new man, guv’nor,” the boy said. “Sure you don’t want the wig? It’s a prime one.”

  “No,” Crispin said, bemused.

  “Well, then, thanks and thanks again. Now I’ll be off, and I’ll be owing you.”

  “Wait!” Crispin said, because he didn’t want that bright smile to vanish forever. Standing, the boy seemed smaller, and even the bulk of the stolen wig inside his shirt couldn’t conceal the fact that he was rail thin. The way he rested on his stick showed he was in pain, and he seemed more vulnerable than ever. “I’ll go with you,” Crispin decided.

  “’Fraid I’ll do you out of your share?” Willie said, with a world-weary smile. “Never mind. Be glad of the company. Yeah, it’ll suit fine, be icing on the disguise. Only call me Dick or Tom if you talk to me out there, sir. Yeah, that’s a good one: Tom.”

  They left the alley and went down the street together. The boy held up his injured leg and hopped along on his other foot. He grimaced and panted, and soon there were tear tracks on his intent face. But when Crispin offered to help him, he snatched his arm back. He teetered on his crutch and hissed, “Stay away! Leave me be! I’m a cripple, get it?”

  He grimaced in exasperation when he saw Crispin’s face. He lowered his voice to a whisper and explained. “Now, how’s a crip going to pinch a wig and run with it, eh? And over the rooftops, too? Sure, that would be a treat to see. Not too likely, right? So leave me gimp, sir, and I’ll be as safe as houses. Try and help me and everyone will notice. A gent helping a beggar bo
y? Now, that would be a sight, wouldn’t it? Everyone would stare, and some might put two and two together. But a beggar trailing after a fine gent? Why, that’s natural, ain’t it? Makes me near invisible, see?”

  Crispin was silent in the face of such shrewdness. He didn’t like the way the boy was hopping painfully down the street, but he didn’t see any way around it. It wasn’t until they’d gone on for a while and the walls of the Fleet prison were in sight that the boy’s discomfort seemed to vanish. He grinned widely, spun once around on his crutch, then rested his back against the gray wall of the prison.

  “There we are,” the boy said, sighing with satisfaction. “You done me a huge favor, and I’m owing you. Now, how can I make it up to you?” He looked at his rescuer as though seeing him for the first time.

  He saw a tall, well-proportioned man with wide shoulders, a trim torso, and long shapely legs that had more than a gentleman’s share of muscle to them. The gent wore his hair clubbed back in a queue, but it didn’t look out of fashion, because his hair was thick and so light a brown as to be pale silver in the sunlight. The face was a gentleman’s, free of the poor man’s scars and blemishes, with skin as clear and smooth as only good and regular meals could produce. He was a handsome fellow, Willie thought, with a fine well-cut mouth, a straight, thin nose, and a determined chin. His eyes were large and deep blue, framed by long, starry black lashes a lass might envy. But despite the pretty features, there was nothing feminine about that face. “Elegant” was the word that came into Willie’s crafty mind and stayed there, turning keys, opening doors to other possibilities.

  He eyed Crispin carefully. His clothes were good, the shirt of fine linen and the vest, coat, and britches of excellent cut and quality. But they weren’t new, and although clean, they weren’t fresh from the press. Willie knew to a pence how much a man had in his pockets by the cut of the coat those pockets were in. This fellow, he thought shrewdly, had come down in the world, maybe only recently, but down, definitely. In fact, the gent’s handkerchief would probably be worth more than his purse right now.