Charlotte’s question of the previous night had put his nerves on edge. Although he preferred to examine a problem through the lens of logic and evidence, he had learned to trust her intuition. And so, deciding to err on the side of caution, he and his valet had ridden out at first light to search the nearby wooded areas for any signs of clandestine activity or a hidden campsite.
It wasn’t that he expected any further trouble . . .
But Trouble had a way of sneaking up on him and his loved ones. And the discovery he had made on returning to the manor house—
“Tuck that scowl in your pocket before taking a seat in the chapel, laddie.” The rough-cut burr of Basil Henning, who had finally arrived from London just before the breakfast hour, cut through his brooding. “We’re attending a wedding, not a funeral.”
“One wouldn’t know it by the looks of you,” drawled the earl.
“M’lady informed me that I am the very picture of sartorial splendor,” retorted Henning.
“I concede that for once you don’t look as if you’ve been dragged by the arse through a gorse bush,” said the earl. “Your hair is combed, your cheeks aren’t sprouting an unsightly stubble . . .”
He feigned a look of shock. “Ye gods, will wonders never cease! Your cravat is snow-white, with just the right amount of starch—”
A rusty chuckle. “Tyler gave me one of yours.”
“I see that I shall have to hire a new valet.”
Henning made a rude sound. “As if anyone else would put up with your sarcasm.”
Ignoring the barb, Wrexford pointed to the surgeon’s coat. “I doubt that the beau monde’s definition of sartorial splendor includes having a foul-looking substance smeared on your sleeve.” He gave a tentative sniff. “Whatisthat?”
“You would have to ask the Weasels. They insisted on showing me one of their chemistry experiments once I finished the excellent breakfast that Mac made for me.” His grin faded. “The laddies seem a little blue-deviled. I take it they miss Peregrine.”
“We all do,” replied the earl.
Earlier in the year, circumstances surrounding an investigation into the murder of a brilliant inventor had caused the Weasels to bond with the man’s orphaned young relative, and the three boys—who quickly deemed themselves brothers-in-spirit—had played a vital role in solving the crime. To the satisfaction of all concerned, Peregrine’s legal guardian had agreed that the boy could come live with Wrexford and his family. But the one stipulation was that Peregrine, who had inherited his late father’s title, must continue his education at Eton.
The Michaelmas term had just started, which meant that the boy couldn’t be with them for the wedding.
Wrexford expelled an inward sigh. Perhaps that explained why the whole family seemed unsettled.
The ringing of the chapel’s bell drew him back to the moment.
“We had better take our seats before the procession begins,” said Henning, shading his eyes as he glanced back at the building. The old stones were glowing with a mellow gold light in the early afternoon sun.
The earl took one last look around. The dowager would have his guts for garters if any disturbance intruded on the ceremony.
Inside the chapel, the air was perfumed with the sweet scent of fresh-cut flowers from the hothouses. He and Henning joined Charlotte and Alison in their pew. After consulting the gold pocket watch tucked in her reticule, the dowager gave a discreet signal, and a murmur of happy anticipation rippled through the guests as the string quartet struck up Haydn’s “Emperor” String Quartet No. 6 in C Major, one of Cordelia’s favorite compositions.
All heads turned as one to the front entrance.
Flanked by Raven and Hawk, a perfectly clean and combed Harper appeared in the open doorway festooned with an ornate flower garland. Following them were Alice the Eel Girl, Skinny, and Pudge, former urchin friends of the Weasels who now worked at the estate. The three of them were carrying wicker baskets filled with pink rose petals, which they scattered onto the walkway.
And behind them were . . .
Wrexford finally smiled, allowing his worries to float away on the breeze as he caught sight of the bridal couple.
* * *
Pop, pop, pop.The explosion of tiny champagne bubbles added a festive note to the sounds of merriment as Charlotte gazed over the rim of her crystal glass to where the wedding guests were lingering on the sun-dappled lawn below the back terrace.
“What a perfect day,” she murmured. A sumptuous post-ceremony repast had been served outdoors under a tented canopy, and though the meal was over, everyone seemed loath to leave the magic of the moment. “Kit and Cordelia deserve no less.”
“Perfection is an illusion. So I shall simply wish for them to be as happy as we are.” Wrexford clinked his glass against hers and quaffed the last swallow of his sparkling wine.
Charlotte leaned against his shoulder. “I confess, I shall welcome some peace and quiet—”
