“Well,” the duchess said, getting to her feet. “Are we ready?”
Pip followed along, once again smoothing out her dress.
“Is it truly all right that Lizzie’s great uncle Philbert gives you away?” the duchess asked, reaching over to straighten that errant curl on Pip’s forehead again. “I would wait until we had some more men return from their little London jaunt—at least your brother--but the princess insists we not wait. She is putting off her departure until after the wedding breakfast.”
Pip finally did smile. “Who am I to gainsay the heir to the throne, ma’am? I adore Uncle Philbert and would be honored to have him walk me.”
Uncle Philbert was an amateur natural scientist and could as easily pull a lizard out of his pocket as a handkerchief. Over the years Uncle Philbert had spent long summer evenings tromping over the nearby downs with the children in search of wildlife and nests. It had been one of the real charms of Pip’s visits.
But now she had outgrown her time here. The idea suddenly became unbearable. This little room on the second floor of Ripton Hall had become the closest thing she likened to home. And she didn’t even have her mother or sisters here to accompany her on.
Before the duchess could open the door, Pip reached out and pulled her into her arms, hugging her tightly. Again, the words that would convey her love and gratitude and grief became clogged in her throat. All she could manage was a teary, “Thank you.”
And somehow, the duchess understood. For a long moment the two of them stood together, the duchess patting Pip on the back and humming, something she’d done since Pip had been young, an atonal resonance that seemed to weave comfort around a person. Pip knew as she heard it that it was the duchess’s way of easing Pip away from the last of her childhood.
It was time to move on. There was a man downstairs waiting to marry her. And no matter what came of the marriage, she could not insult him by refusing to appear. Besides, she didn’t want to give Uncle Philbert any cause to fret.
Pulling back, she swiped at the tears that had escaped to her cheeks and smiled at the woman who had mothered her just as much as her own. “‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’”
The duchess chuckled and waited for Pip to collect her gloves before slipping her arm through Pip’s and leading the way to Pip’s future.
* * *
Beau had no best man.The other Rakes who had been at the house party had all retreated to London before he’d even gotten there, leaving him to babysit the Princess of Wales and collect the plans. He had never considered having anyone else but one of the Rakes stand up with him. Well, not since Theo had died anyway. But Theo wasn’t here either. He lived nowhere but the never-ending ache in Beau’s chest. The flush of resentment he couldn’t control every time he saw Pip.
Beau swore he would work on easing that. But right now, standing in the vestry beside the plain altar in the Gothic gray stone chapel with its clear glass windows awash in morning light, he had to stand up alone. And then he had to figure out how to run out on Pip within minutes of the marriage to deliver the plans to Whitehall.
Assassination. The Lions were going to murder Wellington. They had tried once already, and Beau had been told the next attempt was called out amid the coded messages he kept protected in his inside pocket. He couldn’t make them out: from what he’d heard, he needed a cipher, the identity of which a whole separate section of the Rakes had been working on. He could tell, though, that what Pip had said was true. The messages differed by just a bit. A date, possibly, a name, a site. Just enough to throw pursuers off the track. And both signed with no more than a Tudor Rose, which for some reason had become the symbol for the Lions.
Drake needed to know. Beau needed to deliver this message in person. It was too dangerous to entrust to anyone else. But he had to escape the house party without Pamela or Lord Burke being any the wiser, and without Pip being blamed.
Lord Burke. Beau shook his head. He would have loved to scoff at Pip’s allegation. After all, Burke was welcome everywhere, a quiet, genial man with a mind of a mathematician. But Beau had to admit that it had been most odd that he’d been the one to accompany Pamela when she had discovered Beau with Pip. And Beau couldn’t ignore the quick, hard hug Burke had bestowed. From anyone else it might not have meant anything. But Burke was not a hugger. Could he have been checking to see if Beau had snuck the plans into his coat? If Burke really was a member of the Lions, that might be even more important information than the message itself.
Beau kept wanting to check his watch. He didn’t have time to wait around for Pip to primp and posture her way to the altar. He had more important business to attend to.
“Nerves from the bridegroom?” a soft voice asked behind him.
He turned to see the ducal chaplain arrive in white surplice and stole, girded for battle. A severely handsome man, Dr. Borden was more scholar than shepherd. But he had fit the old duke to a thumb. Beau liked him.
He smiled. “Never know when my bride will manage to be on time,” he said.
He wouldn’t know either how she would react when he dragged her off. How could either of them explain when he pushed her into a carriage and tore out of the estate before the wedding breakfast was over.
First, though, he had to get married. Devil take it.
And apologize. That.
Maybe he could wait on that until he got back.
Every member of the house party crowded the pews in the small chapel. Who, after all, would risk missing the scandal of the season, if only so they could take it back to spread like manure around town, manufactured concern dripping like honey from their words, honey that ended up tasting like venom. Poor Pip. She was the one who would suffer. He’d get ribald jokes and slaps on the back. Knowing winks and settled bets in Whites. He and Pip had been on those books for a while now, even though her name was never really mentioned, as was gentlemanly. Just “Drummond’s shadow.”
Where the deucewasshe, his shadow?
“No best man?” the vicar asked, his attention still out over the guests.
“Not time to collect him. Uncle Philbert is happy to stand in if necessary. Rather tidy, since he’s walking the bride down the aisle as well.”
The vicar nodded. “Yes, I understand most of her family are in the wilds of St. Petersburg.”
