Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas(4)

Her vision darkened and she swayed on the verge of fainting. It couldn't be true. It couldn't!

Yet that was his signature, she recognized it from the notes he'd sent her. Charming, laughing letters, in which he had declared his love ...

Nausea swept through her. She had believed him. She had been fool enough to believe him!

In that instant her youth died. Setting the paper back on her father's desk, she said in a trembling voice, "It appears that I was mistaken in Mr. Chandler. I'm sorry for costing you so much, Papa." She swallowed hard. "It won’t… happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Her father rose and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "You're a sensible girl. You'll see, this is all for the best. In Wiltshire, his father was called the Devil, and young Chandler was called the Devil's Spawn. You're better off without him."

She gave a brittle smile before leaving the room. No doubt her father was right and this was all for the best.

But it was a pity that she hadn't died two hours earlier, when she had still believed in love.





Chapter 2





Plymouth Harbor, 1829





After a nerve wracking climb up a wildly unstable rope ladder, Sir George Renfrew swung gratefully onto the deck of the Lovely Lady. To the nearest sailor he said, "I believe that Lord Chandler is expecting me."

"Right this way, sir."

Renfrew followed the sailor across the swaying deck, trying to remember when and where he had last seen his friend Dominick. It must have been five years ago, in Hong Kong. Or had it been in the Sandwich Islands? Somewhere exotic, at any rate, and that night they had become roaring drunk, making toasts to the good old days at King's College. He smiled reminiscently.

The sailor led him to a cabin door, then withdrew. Renfrew knocked and entered when a familiar voice called, "Come in."

Renfrew stepped into the lavishly furnished owner's cabin. "Dominick, old man, how… " His voice cut off abruptly.

In the center of the cabin stood a hulking savage, his face obscured by wild black hair and a riotous beard. He was almost naked, with a crude whale-tooth necklace swinging across his chest and only a loincloth to cover his modesty. Hard muscles rippled beneath his bronzed skin as he stalked across the cabin, a guttural sound vibrating deep in his throat and a stone headed spear in his hand.

For a shocked moment Renfrew considered bolting. Reminding himself that he had bested Malay pirates in the South China Sea, he raised his cane and barked, "What have you done with Lord Chandler, you ugly savage?"

Amazingly, the brute began to laugh. "So I can deceive even you, George," he said in smooth, impeccably upper-class English. "That bodes well."

Renfrew gasped. "My God, is that you, Dominick?"

He looked closer and saw the familiar gray eyes. With a sigh of relief he lowered his cane. "Dare I ask what you are up to this time?"

Dominick waved his friend to the padded bench built against one wall. "I've come a'wooing."

George snorted as he sat and accepted a glass of brandy. "You've been away too long. If you want to win a wife in England, all you'll need is your title and the fortune you made trading in the East. You’ll have to beat women off with a club." In fact, he thought as he examined the other man's powerful body, even the title and fortune wouldn't be needed. Women had always become buttery and wide-eyed around his friend.

"I don't want any woman, but a particular one." Dominick settled into a chair and regarded his brandy glass, his manner utterly at odds with his appearances "Remember the family I asked you to gather information about? The Mayfields?"

Renfrew thought back. It had been over a year since he had made his quiet investigation and sent the results halfway around the world to his friend. "Ah, yes, the eccentric baronet and his spinster daughter. I wondered why you were interested in them." "Not them. Her," Dominick said succinctly.

"You want to court Miss Mayfield?" Renfrew said with surprise. "I've never met her myself, but by all reports she's a dry stick of a female. Hardly your type."

Dominick's eyes flashed. "Roxanne wasn't always a dry stick, I promise you!"

More and more interesting. Beginning to understand, Renfrew remarked, "Sir William is some sort of authority on primitive cultures, isn't he?"

"Exactly." Dominick swirled the brandy in his goblet. "From your report, Miss Mayfield never leaves the estate except in the company of her father. You also found that all letters go to Sir William, and he has long since discouraged her friends from calling." An edge of anger sounded in his voice. "She sounds very near to being a prisoner."

"I wouldn't say that," Renfrew objected. "She is merely a quiet woman who is devoted to her father."

"No," Dominick said flatly. "She's not really like that, but her father has given her no choice."

Obviously there was a story here, but it didn't look like Renfrew would hear it today. "What do you intend to do?"

His friend looked up. "Remember the strange case of Princess Caraboo, about ten or eleven years ago?"

It took Renfrew a moment to place the reference. "As I recall, she was some sort of East Indian princess who had been kidnapped by pirates, then escaped near the coast of England and swam ashore, where she was taken in by a vicar and his wife. But she turned out to be a fraud, didn't she?"