The Wedding Page 8

  “It’s all relative, isn’t it?” Crispin said with a cold smile. “There’s freedom and there’s freedom. The cost of buying you out of Newgate or the Fleet prison, after you’d been put there for attempted blackmail of a lord of the realm, and the cost of a nobleman’s being rid of a foolish mistake are two entirely different things, aren’t they?”

  “Ah, too sadly true, my lord, too true,” Harry said smoothly, his voice finally clear of crumbs. “The cost of a poor man’s life and a nobleman’s leisure are two different things. But even a high court would put a high price on the cost of a poor but decent girl’s virtue and a nobleman’s false promises, would they?”

  “Decent girl?” Crispin said on a harsh laugh, “I’m not so certain of that. Come, Harry, state your price and let’s be done with it.” Crispin heard Dulcie’s soft intake of breath, but he refused to look her way.

  Harry frowned as the smooth-faced man he’d introduced as Jerome Snode whispered in his ear, while the smaller man who apparently was the girl’s father put down his plate and rose from his chair.

  “Here, now, sir!” Philip Blessing said, his voice trembling with outrage. “I can’t believe I’ve heard right. My daughter is as much a victim as you are, my lord. She entered into the union in good faith and now finds herself reviled? Shame.”

  “Good faith?” Crispin shouted, ignoring the warning hand his friend Wrede laid on his arm. “Shame? She entered into a false marriage to free herself of debt and finds herself really married to a lord of the realm. If she wants to act in good faith she only has to remove herself from this charade of a marriage.”

  “If she removes herself from the marriage,” Jerome Snode pointed out, “she goes back to prison for debt.”

  “Tell me the amount of the debt, and it will be paid,” Crispin said in cold fury. “Then add what you will, within reason, and we can be done with this nonsense.” He turned his back on the company so they wouldn’t see the sheer murder in his eyes.

  “The old man registered the marriage,” Jerome said.

  “And marriage registers have never been altered, I suppose,” Crispin said dryly.

  “Not without adequate recompense,” Jerome said.

  “Ah, we come to it at last,” Crispin said with bitter satisfaction.

  “What are you talking about?” Philip Blessing asked. “My daughter is legally wed to this man. ‘What God has joined together let no man put asunder.’ Bad enough my poor child had to attempt a mockery of a marriage in order to free me of my folly. Worse, if she should now be told to attempt another deception in the eyes of God. I will not have it. She cannot call down eternal damnation, as well as the possibility of criminal prosecution, upon her poor, innocent head. No, no. I won’t have it.”

  “What? What in God’s name are you rattling on about?” Harry Meech cried.

  “Philip, my friend,” Jerome Snode said in dismay. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying she is married to the viscount, and married she will stay. I am a foolish man, gentlemen, a weak man and an incautious one. But that is my life. I will not let my daughter ruin hers.” Philip Blessing planted his feet far apart and stood stalwart before them.

  They all stared back at him. The other men had never heard him speak that way. But Dulcie had. She could have wept. Somewhere between their poor flat and this sumptuous house, her father had changed his mind—or rather made it up, for she recognized that tone of voice. He was selling, and so, of course he believed in his product, and she knew nothing would change his mind. But she had to try.

  “Father,” she said hoarsely, “I don’t want to be married to the viscount. I don’t know him. I want to be free. We have a nice life now, or at least a chance for one. It’s wrong to take money from him, but I think we’ll have to take enough to clear your debts, because your creditors will want payment when they find out that the marriage was a false one.”

  She glanced up at Crispin. “We paid good money for the certificate, and I entered the marriage in good faith—even though it wasn’t the good faith you mean,” she told him. “Still, my father should not have to go back to jail just because you were stupid enough to sign with your initials,” she finished with a watery sniffle.

  Crispin was tempted, against all reason, to smile. The night had taken on an air of unreality. She did look adorable in her confusion. He was surprised by how well he remembered her. Even her plain clothes couldn’t conceal her fresh beauty, and her reasoning was just skewed enough to appeal to him. Whatever her faults, she had the same desire he did: to be free. For that, he might be able to forgive her.

  “Daughter,” Philip Blessing said sadly, “to think I would live to hear you speak such blasphemy. You are a good God-fearing girl. You married this man for the wrong reason, but you are married, and that is that.”

  Dulcie shuddered. “Father, please listen,” she pleaded.

  “What kind of double-dealing is this?” Harry Meech thundered.

  “Philip, are you mad?” Jerome shouted.

  “Mr. Blessing,” Phipps called, “what are you saying?”

  “Be still!” the earl of Wrede commanded.

  “My children,” old Dr. Featherstone proclaimed over the babble of raised voices. “Peace! Peace, I beg of you!”

  “My lord? Do you need our help?” a new voice intruded fearfully, as the door slowly cracked open.

  Three nervous footmen stood in the hall peering into the room over the butler’s shoulder. Behind them a cluster of lavishly dressed guests stood on tiptoe, trying to see what was causing the ruckus in the viscount’s salon, and why he’d been gone so long. Crispin saw one beautiful fascinated face he knew too well peeking through the knot of servants. Charlotte was fanning herself furiously, but watching avidly. So was Prendergast, who stood at her side along with a dozen others. Before he had a chance to close the door, Philip Blessing saw them all and spoke up.

  “My lord! Are you going to keep your marriage a secret?” he asked, his voice loud, clear, and distinct enough so that his words echoed in the absolute silence that fell after they were spoken.

  “Now you’ve done it!” Harry growled, as the first murmurs of “Marriage!” were heard in the hall and began spreading beyond to the rest of the company.

  “It’s not too late, my lord,” Jerome cried, “a mis-saying, that’s all.”

  “It’s far too late for bargaining. I have the marriage papers,” Philip Blessing said implacably, patting his pocket and then resting his hand on his heart. “You’ll thank me for this one day,” he murmured to Dulcie. Then he smiled at his new son-in-law. “Aren’t you going to introduce your new lady wife to your guests, my son?” he asked him.

  Crispin closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were bleak. He looked into the hallway and directly into Charlotte’s disbelieving eyes. His misery was replaced with white-hot rage.

  “So be it,” he said with awful clarity. Then he grasped Dulcie by the wrist, pulled her to her feet, and dragged her toward the door.

  “My ladies, my lords,” he said through gritted teeth, “you must have guessed there was a special reason for tonight’s festivities. I ask your felicitations. Behold! My bride. We were married recently, quietly because of a death in her family.”

  And as the guests gaped and whispered, he added, for Dulcie’s ears only, “Yes—a death, of her common sense and her sense of fairness and her peace of mind. You will regret this night’s work, my dear.

  “Come and meet your guests, darling. I know they will excuse your clothes, understanding how far you’ve traveled today,” he said. Then he pulled her out of the salon and into the midst of his gala ball.

  Dulcie wanted to run, but he kept his hand hard on her wrist. She’d argued in vain against coming here, imagining the many things that might happen—from being bodily thrown from the viscount’s elegant town house to being laughed to shame. But never this! Although he only held her wrist in his tight clasp, it was worse than being beaten. His contempt was far m
ore cruel than the rude laughter she had been worried about. The brittle smiles his guests wore as they stared at her were even more painful than outright scorn would have been. She’d thought Harry’s ugly plan would not succeed, and she’d been right. But she never guessed how badly things would turn out.

  He dragged her into the crowded ballroom, and his guests circled about, eyeing her. They were perfumed and powdered, adorned with the snowy hair of angels, and so covered with gems, satin, silk, and brocade that they did not seem to be people at all, but rather the fantastic creatures she saw sometimes alighting from carriages, or riding past on her street. Their painted faces were shocked and dismayed. At first they thought it was a jest, and their eyes were alight with cruel humor, but they soon began to realize that there was no joke.

  Dulcie tried to keep her back straight and her face blank, but she was unable to conceal the terror in her eyes or the rapid beating of her heart. She was afraid she might faint, but was too frightened to lose consciousness among them. Crispin led her through the ranks of his guests, introducing her to all of them as music played on. She didn’t hear their names and was only able to nod, because she didn’t trust her legs to curtsy. She had worn her best clothes tonight so that the viscount wouldn’t think her entirely impoverished. She’d put on her brown taffeta dress and wore her hair piled high, with her best silver pins in it. These people stared at her unpowdered hair and narrow skirts and the simple cameo she wore at her neck on a plain ribbon, and they acted as if she were being led through their midst naked.

  Crispin continued the introductions until the faces became a blur to her. Only when they entered a small dim room off the cavernous ballroom and shut the door did he ease his grip on her arm. She looked around wildly, seeking escape, but the tall windows were closed and curtained, and she could see no other way out except back through the throng of guests in the ballroom. She couldn’t bear to face them again, but she didn’t see any other path to freedom. She paused to gather her courage.

  “Do you think this wise?” a tall bony man asked the viscount in an intense voice.

  “Do you think I had a choice?” the viscount answered with savage intensity. “What was I to do, Wrede? Deny it there and then? Her damned father had the marriage certificate in hand and was dying to show it off to everyone. That would have been a pretty picture, with me denying all, and that old man waving the papers in their faces. Was I supposed to wrestle him to the floor before he could produce them? No. There was no way I could avoid it. I had no choice but to accept the girl and to put as good a face on the situation as I could.”

  “Yes, well, I see your point,” the tall man said. When he saw the viscount’s grip again tighten on Dulcie’s wrist, he continued, “But the way you’re going on, there’ll be even more talk. If that’s possible. Come, Crispin, it looks bad. She’s dressed like a servant and you’re treating her like a truant.”

  “What am I to do with her, then?” the viscount asked with sudden weariness, releasing her hand. “She’s my wife—for the time being, at least. In God’s name, what am I to do with her?”

  “Let me go,” Dulcie said quickly, “please. I don’t want to be your wife. I don’t belong here. Let me go home, please.”

  “Yes, home. Wherever that is,” Crispin said dryly, “so your father and Harry Meech and their charming friends can sue me for abandonment and Lord knows what else. Once you’re out of my sight, God knows what they’ll do.”

  She tried to step away from him, but he moved with lightning speed and captured her hand in his again.

  “This is wonderful,” the earl of Wrede swore. “If you’re going to beat her, for God’s sake take her elsewhere, man.”

  “That’s not such a bad idea,” Crispin said wearily, and tightening his clasp, he led her out of the room. They went up a long stair and then down another endless hallway. She stumbled, but went willingly, for at least they were moving away from the crowd of people. When they came to a door, he opened it and pushed her inside.

  “You stay put,” he growled, and pulled the door shut hard behind him, leaving her alone in the room.

  “There,” Crispin said, dusting off his hands and looking at Wrede, “the bride is in her chamber. What in hell do we do now?”

  “We go back to the ball and tell everyone she has an aching head. We say it’s because of all the excitement, and make light of it, and circulate among the guests, telling the same story you invented: married in a private ceremony because of a death in the family, more to be made known later and blah, blah, blah. Then we escort Harry Meech and company from the premises. But we keep her father. He’s the key to this whole mess—if there is one.”

  “Pray there is,” Crispin said savagely, “for my sake and for hers.”

  *

  Crispin eyed the man thoughtfully as he poured a brandy for him. He wondered if the fellow was really the girl’s father. There was nothing similar about their face or eyes. The girl was remarkably lovely, but the supposed father was completely unremarkable. It didn’t matter. The man claimed to be the father, was acknowledged to be, and held the marriage papers, and so had Crispin in the palm of his hand. Although the situation infuriated him, he couldn’t afford to show his anger. It was ironic that now that he finally had his fortune back, the one thing he couldn’t afford was anger.

  “It’s a lucky thing you decided to stay with us this evening, sir,” he commented pleasantly as he handed the snifter of brandy to Philip Blessing, “Your friends seemed very displeased with you.”

  “My acquaintances,” Philip corrected him as he accepted the brandy.

  “Ah, yes. But they might argue that point with you, among others. It took four footmen and a promise of the watch to get them away from you and out of here. So, then, sir,” Crispin said, as he took a chair by the fire, “what are we going to do now?” he asked.

  Philip, he noticed, was now cautiously eyeing the earl of Wrede, who sat nearby, listening closely. “The earl is an old friend of mine.”

  “Well, my lord, what shall I say?” the older man said, sitting back and crossing his ankles, “I don’t choose to be an interfering in-law.”

  “No,” Crispin said with barely controlled anger, “just an insistent one.”

  “No, just a man with the facts. Number one: you are married; that is a fact, like it or not. Number two: you have married my daughter, another fact. She resembles her mother,” Philip added with a little smile, “in case you were wondering. Those are the facts. Nothing can be done to change them. But now I’ve a question for you. What are the ways out of marriage?

  “There are only two,” Philip answered before Crispin could speak. “Death and divorce. Both are hard solutions. And divorce is difficult, costly, and unmentionable in polite society. I should know, gentlemen. My wife and I have lived apart for years. She might want to wed again—I know that I would love to, but neither of us wants to die. People only die for love, you know, not for lack of it. We don’t have enough money to sue for a divorce, nor would it do either of us much good. A divorced woman is a woman shamed, and there is my family name to think of. Those of us who have no titles also have good names, you know. My family is a very old one. You may be able to trace your ancestors to Normandy, my lords, but mine go back to the mists of time.”

  “Your daughter is charming and very beautiful,” Crispin said impatiently, “and your family may be a proud one, but I don’t want to be part of it. To put it plainer: I didn’t mean to marry her. I did her a favor. Now I want to know what favor I can do you in order to undo this unfortunate marriage.”

  “I see,” Philip Blessing said, considering Crispin carefully. “Do you favor death or divorce?”

  “Neither,” Crispin snapped, rising and pacing the room. “Nothing so dire. I was thinking more of the simple movement of a few papers. The loss of some, and a sheet taken from a marriage register. That should do it.”

  “No,” Philip said calmly, “I think not. Number one, that would leave us open to blac
kmail from my acquaintances. And, number two, it would sully my daughter’s name forever. People will find out. After all, you introduced her as your wife tonight.”

  “She doesn’t know those people, and she’ll never see them again,” Crispin said in agitation as he swung around to confront the older man. “I’ll give you money, Blessing. A lot of it. You can take her to France or to the Colonies. You’ll be free to go wherever you want. She’ll be rich, and you’ll both be much happier without me, believe me.”

  “Are you implying that you’ll do her an injury if I don’t take her away?” Philip asked quietly, watching the lean, broad-shouldered viscount closely as he paced the room.

  The earl began to speak, but Crispin waved him to silence. “No,” he answered wearily. “I know what I should answer, Wrede. But lies, even well-meaning ones, have gotten me into enough trouble. No, I won’t do her harm. I’m not that sort of man. But can’t you see reason, Mr. Blessing? I want out of this marriage because I wish to wed another.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. I heard the other guests talking. And I saw the lady. Very lovely she is, too. But I also heard that you were free and at loose ends when you met my daughter and I’ve also heard that your lady gave you up when your fortune ran out.”

  “That, sir, is no concern of yours,” Crispin said in a deadly voice.

  “My dear sir,” the earl put in quickly, seeing the murderous rage in Crispin’s eyes, “while it is true that my friend must purchase a wife in either case, he prefers to purchase one of his own choosing.”

  “So I see,” Philip Blessing said, nodding and staring at Crispin as though he saw many other things besides, “but as I said, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

  “At least,” the earl pressed him, “say ‘tonight’ instead of `now.’”

  “Very well,” Philip said, “‘tonight.’ But, please, gentlemen, I am rather weary. I’m no longer young, and with all the recent excitement…I’m afraid I must bid you good night. It’s a long walk back to my lodgings.”