A Valentine Wedding

Prologue

T
ORRES
V
EDRAS
, P
ORTUGAL
J
ULY
18, 1810

“They’re gaining on us, Ned.” The speaker swiveled in his saddle, one hand resting on his mount’s crupper as he stared across the darkening landscape behind them. He could see faintly the rising dust of a headlong pursuit. He cast a despairing glance at his companion. Edward Beaumont, fifth earl of Grantley, was leaning heavily over his horse’s withers, and his back was wet with blood.

“I know it.” The words were a mere thread, tailing off in a gasp of pain as Ned dragged air into his shattered lungs. Blood bubbled from his lips. “I can’t outrun them, Hugh. You must go on and leave me here.”

“No, I will not.” Hugh Melton leaned over and seized his companion’s rein, urging the horse onward. “I’ll not leave you to those Portuguese savages. We’ll be in Lisbon by dawn. Come
on
, Ned!”

“No.” The flat negative had more force than anything Ned had said since he’d taken the Portuguese
sniper’s bullet to his back an hour earlier. With his last strength, he hauled back on the reins. His horse whinnied and pranced, confused by the contradictory signals he was receiving. “Damn it, Hugh, you must go on … save yourself.” He struggled for a minute, fingers scrabbling inside his jacket. “There’s more at stake than you know.”

Hugh was silent. He had guessed as much … had suspected for many months during this Portuguese campaign under Wellington’s command, that his friend played a more devious role than his simple title of aide-de-camp to the duke would imply. And he’d guessed that this supposed jaunt to Lisbon from the lines before Torres Vedras had more than a few days of well-earned leave as its purpose.

“Here.” Ned pulled out two thin packets. Blood smeared the protective covering of oiled parchment that enclosed their contents. He swayed violently in the saddle as he leaned over, pushing the packets at Hugh. “Get these on the first ship out of Lisbon.”

“What are they?” But even as he asked the question, Hugh understood that Ned would not give him a straight answer.

“Send this one to Horseguards … Charles Lester.” Ned struggled for the breath to speak as he indicated one of the packets. “I haven’t written addresses … too risky. Do it when you get to Lisbon and make sure it goes on the first troopship!”

Hugh took the parchment and thrust it inside the breast of his tunic.

“This one is for my sister, Lady Emma Beaumont, at Grantley Manor in Hampshire,” Ned gasped, holding out the second packet. “For God’s sake, Hugh,
go.
The one for Horseguards cannot fall into their hands.”

The wounded man slumped sideways in his saddle; the reins slid through his fingers. Only his feet in the stirrups seemed to hold him in place.

“God’s grace!” Hugh reined in both horses before Ned could fall to the ground.

“Help me down,” Ned gasped. “I can hold my seat no longer … for God’s sake, man, quickly. They’ll stop for me and give you a few moments’ grace. You can outride them.” A spark of desperation for a moment enlivened golden brown eyes that were growing dimmer by the minute.

Hugh swung off his horse. He caught his friend as he slipped from the saddle into Hugh’s arms. Hugh laid him down on the hard, summer-parched ground that still held the day’s heat. He stood looking helplessly down at the man whose blood was seeping inexorably into the earth. And then he heard the sound of hoofbeats, carrying on the still evening air, pounding the dirt.

Ned’s eyelids flickered. “For pity’s sake, Hugh. Don’t let me die in vain.”

Hugh hesitated no longer. He remounted with an agile spring and kicked his mount into a gallop. He would not,
could
not, think of his friend lying in the dirt waiting for the attentions of those who had been chasing them since early afternoon. If they were after what Hugh Melton now carried, they would not find it. By dawn it would be in Lisbon, on the first troopship bound for England.

The four horsemen reined in their plunging horses as they came up with the inert body on the ground, the patient steed cropping at a low bush. One of them, whose lavish silver braid and epaulets denoted his rank, flung himself from his horse with an oath. He bent over Ned.

“He lives yet,” he said grimly, his hands searching roughly, tearing at the blood-soaked garments, rolling the man over onto his belly heedless of his wounds. He swore vigorously as his search turned up nothing. “He hasn’t got it. Two of you go after the other one. Pedro and I will work on this one. For as long as he lives, he has a tongue.”

Ned heard the words as from a great distance. A strange little smile quirked his lips as they yanked him over onto his back. He looked up at the swarthy face hanging over him. Hard black eyes, a cruel mouth beneath a thick waxed mustache.

“My apologies, Colonel,” he murmured in Portuguese. “I may have a tongue, but it’s not at your disposal.” He closed his eyes, the smile still on his lips. He saw now a different face filling his internal vision. Eyes as golden as his own, a wide smiling mouth. “Em,” he said, and died.

Chapter One

G
RANTLEY
M
ANOR
, E
NGLAND
D
ECEMBER
, 1810

“It’s outrageous!
Insufferable!
I absolutely will not tolerate it.” Emma Beaumont tore at the lace-edged handkerchief between her hands as she paced the elegant salon. The flounced hem of her gown of dove gray crepe swung with every step.

“Oh, Emma, dearest, you cannot talk so,” declared a middle-aged lady in a round gown of dark silk. The lappets of her cap trembled against her cheek as she shook her head decisively.

“Oh, can I not, Maria?” exclaimed the infuriated Lady Emma. “Mr. Critchley, something must be done about this. I
insist
upon it. I cannot imagine what Ned can have been thinking.”

An embarrassed silence followed her declaration. Mr. Critchley coughed behind his hand and rustled his lawyer’s papers. The middle-aged lady plied her fan vigorously. An elderly couple seated side by side on a sofa with guilded scroll ends stared into space.
The man thumped his cane on the Aubusson carpet with monotonous thuds, while his spouse pursed her lips and gave a sour little nod, as if vindicated in some way.

“Emma … Emma!” a voice drawled from the far side of the room. “You’re putting everyone to the blush.” Alasdair Chase was leaning against the wall of bookshelves, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his buckskin britches. His mud-splashed topboots gave evidence of a day’s hunting. There was a wicked glimmer in his green eyes, a sardonic quirk to his mouth.

Emma spun around on the speaker. “All but you, Alasdair, I daresay,” she said with the same bitter fury as before. “Just what arguments did you use with Ned to get him to agree to this … this intolerable
insult?”

The tapping of the cane grew more pronounced; the elderly gentleman coughed vigorously against his hand.

“Emma!” moaned Maria from behind her fan. “Only think what you’re saying.”

“Yes, indeed, Lady Emma … only consider,” murmured the distressed lawyer.

Emma flushed and pressed her palms to her cheeks. “I did not mean …”

“If you must rail at me, Emma, then do so in private.” Alasdair pushed himself away from the wall and crossed the room toward her. He moved with a lithe step; his slender body was supple as a rapier, giving the impression of sinew and speed rather than muscular power. A hand cupped her elbow. “Come,” he said in soft command, and drew her toward a door in the far wall.

Emma went with him without protest. Her color
was still high, her fingers still ripped at the now ragged handkerchief, but she was in control of herself again, aware once more of her audience and the impropriety of her words.

Alasdair closed the door behind them. They were in a small music room containing a handsome pianoforte and a gilded harp. He went to the piano, raised the cover, and played a scale, a vibrant ripple of notes that filled the small chamber.