Almost Heaven (55 page)

“Two days later your brother spoke of what he had done to cronies of his at the Knightbridge. He claimed that Thornton had ruined you and him, and that he would die before Thornton got away with it. According to one of Thornton’s grooms, that very night your brother again rode out of the darkness and accosted Thornton on the road to London. This time, your brother shot him in the shoulder. Thornton managed to subdue him with his fists, but your brother fled on horseback. Since Thornton couldn’t pursue him through the woods in his coach, your brother made good his escape. The next day, however, after leaving his club, your brother abruptly disappeared. He left everything behind in his rooms, you said. His clothes, his personal effects, everything. What does all this say to you, Lady Cameron?” he asked abruptly.

Elizabeth swallowed again, refusing to let herself think beyond what she knew. “It says that Robert was obsessed with avenging me, and that his methods were-were not exactly – well, aboveboard.”

“Has Thornton never mentioned this to you?”

Shaking her head, Elizabeth added defensively, “Robert is something of a sore subject between us. We don’t discuss him.”

“You are not heeding me, my lady,” he burst out in frustrated anger. “You are avoiding drawing obvious conclusions. I believe Thornton had your brother abducted, or worse, in order to prevent him from making additional attempts on his life.”

“I’ll
ask
him,” Elizabeth cried as a tiny hammer of panic and pain began to pound in her head.

“Do
not
do any such thing.” Wordsworth said, looking ready to shake her. “Our chances of discovering the truth lie in not alerting Thornton that we’re seeking it. If all else fails, I may ask you to tell him what you know so that we can watch him, see where he goes, what he does next – not that he’s likely to be overt about it. That is our last choice.” Sympathetically, he finished, “I regret being the cause of your having to endure further gossip, but I felt you must be appraised before you actually married that murderous Scot!”

He sneered the word “Scot” again, and in the midst of all her turmoil and terror
that
foolish thing raised Elizabeth’s hackles. “Stop saying ‘Scot’ in that insulting fashion,” she cried. “And Ian – -Lord Thornton – is half-English,” she added a little wildly.

“That leaves him only half-barbarian,” Wordsworth countered with scathing contempt. He softened his voice a little as he looked at the pale, beautiful girl who was glowering defiantly at him. “You cannot know the sort of people they can be, and usually are. My sister married one, and I cannot describe to you the hell he’s made of her life.”

“Ian Thornton is
not
your brother-in-law!”

“No, he is not,” Wordsworth snapped. “He is a man who made his early fortune gambling, and who was more than once accused of being a cheat! Twelve years ago – it’s common knowledge – he won the title deed to a small gold mine in a game of cards with a colonial while he was in port there on his first voyage. The gold mine panned out, and the miner who’d worked half his life in that mine tried to bring charges against Thornton in the colonies. He swore your fiancé cheated, and do you know what happened?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Your half-Scot killed him in cold blood. Do you hear me? He
killed
him. It is common knowledge, I tell you.”

Elizabeth began to tremble so violently that her whole body shook.

“They dueled, and that barbarian
killed
him.” The word “duel” fell on Elizabeth’s shattered senses like a numbing anesthetic. A duel was not quite murder . . . not really. “Was-was it a fair duel?”

Wordsworth shrugged. “Gossip has it that it was, but that is only gossip.”

Elizabeth shot to her feet, but the angry accusation in her eyes didn’t hide her own misgivings. “You dismiss something as gossip when it vindicates him, yet when it incriminates him you rely on it completely, and you expect me to do so as well!”

“Please, my lady,” he said, looking truly desperate. “I’m only trying to show you the folly of proceeding with this wedding. Don’t do it, I implore you. You must wait.”

“I’ll be the one to decide that,” she said, hiding her fright behind proud anger.

His jaw tight with frustration, he said finally, “If you are foolish enough to marry this man today, then I implore you not to tell him what I have learned, but to continue in whatever way you’ve been doing to avoid discussion of Robert Cameron. If you do
not,”
he said in a terrible voice, “you are putting your brother’s life in jeopardy, if he is still alive.”

Elizabeth was trying so hard to concentrate and not to collapse that she dug her nails into her palms. “What are you talking about?” she demanded in a choked cry. “You’re not making sense. I have to ask Ian. He has to have a chance to deny this slander, to explain, to –”

That drove Wordsworth to actually grab her shoulders in alarm. “Listen to me,” he barked. “If you do that, you may well get your own brother killed!” Embarrassed by his own vehemence, he dropped his hands, but his voice was still insistent to the point of pleading. “Consider the facts, if you won’t consider conjecture. Your husband has just been named heir to one of the most important titles in Europe. He is going to marry you – a beautiful woman, a
countess,
who would have been above his touch until a few weeks ago. Do you think for a moment he’ll risk all that by letting your brother be found and brought here to give evidence against him? If your brother wasn’t killed, if Thornton only had him put to work in one of his mines, or impressed on one of his ships, and you start questioning him, Thornton will have little choice but to decide to dispose of the evidence. Are you listening to me, Lady Cameron? Do you understand?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Then I’ll bid you good day and resume the search for your brother.” He paused at the door and looked back at the girl in the middle of the room who was standing with her head bent, her face ghostly pale. “For your own sake, don’t wed the man, at least until we know for sure.”

“When will that be?” she asked in a shattered voice.

“Who knows? In a month, perhaps, or in a year. Or never.” He paused and drew a long, frustrated breath. “If you do act in defiance of all sense and wed him, then for your brother’s sake, if not for your own, keep your silence. You, too, would be in danger if he’s guilty and he thinks you’re going to discover it and perhaps expose him.”

When he left, Elizabeth sank back down on the sofa and closed her eyes, trying to keep her tears at bay. In her mind she heard Wordsworth’s voice. In her heart she saw Ian smiling down at her, his voice husky and filled with need: “Love me, Elizabeth.” And then she saw him as he’d confronted her uncle, a muscle jerking in his cheek, his body emanating rage. She remembered him in the greenhouse, too, when Robert barged in on them and said Elizabeth was already betrothed; Ian had looked at
her
with murder in his eyes.

But he hadn’t harmed Robert in that duel. Despite his justifiable wrath, he’d acted with cold control. Swallowing convulsively, Elizabeth brushed a tear from the comer of her eye, feeling as if she was being tom to pieces.

She saw his face, that hard face that could be transformed to almost boyishness by one of his lazy smiles. She saw his eyes-icy in Scotland, blazing at her uncle. . . and smiling down at her the day he came to Havenhurst.

But it was his voice that revolved in her mind, overcoming the doubt, that rich, compelling, husky voice – “Love me, Elizabeth.”

Slowly Elizabeth stood up, and though she was still deathly pale, she had made her decision. If he was innocent and she stopped this wedding, Ian would be made to look a fool; she couldn’t even give him a reason for doing it, and he would never forgive her. She would lose him forever. If she married him, if she followed her instincts, she might never know what became of Robert. Or Ian would be vindicated. Or else she would find out that she was married to a monster, a murderer.

Alexandra took one look at Elizabeth’s white face and hurtled off the bed, wrapping her arms around her friend. “What is it, Elizabeth? Is it bad news? Tell me – please, you look ready to drop.”

Elizabeth wanted to tell her, would have told her, but she very much feared Alex would try to talk her out of proceeding with the wedding. The decision had been hard enough to make; now that she had decided, she didn’t think she could bear to listen to arguments or she’d start to waver. She was determined to believe in Ian; and since she was, she wanted Alex’s liking for him to continue to grow.

“It’s nothing.” she said lamely. “At least not yet. Mr. Wordsworth simply needed more information about Robert, and it’s a difficult thing to talk about with him.”

While Alexandra and a maid fussed with Elizabeth’s train the bride waited at the back of the church, cold with nerves, torn with misgivings, telling herself this was nothing but wedding jitters.

She looked past the doors, knowing that in the entire packed cathedral there was not one relative of her own – not even a single male relative to give her away. At the front of the church she saw Jordan Townsende step out and take his place, followed by Ian, tall and dark and overwhelming in stature and will. There was no one who could make him abide by their bargain if he chose to ignore it. Not even the courts would force him to do that.

“Elizabeth?” the Duke of Stanhope said gently, and he held out his arm to her. “Don’t be afraid, child,” he said softly, smiling at her huge, stricken eyes. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

The organ gave forth with a blast of melody, then paused expectantly, and suddenly Elizabeth was walking down the aisle. Of the thousands of people watching her, she wondered how many were still recalling her publicized “liaison” with Ian and speculating on how much too soon a babe was likely to arrive.

Many of the faces were kind, though, she noticed distractedly. The duke’s sister smiled as she passed; the other sister dabbed at her eyes. Roddy Carstairs gave her an audacious wink, and a hysterical chuckle bubbled inside her, then collided with a rump of terror and confusion. Ian was watching her, too, his expression unreadable. Only the vicar looked comforting as he waited, the marriage book open in his hands.

CHAPTER 29

The Duke of Stanhope had insisted that a grand wedding banquet and reception, with everyone of social prominence in attendance, was just the thing to put a final end to the gossip about Ian and Elizabeth’s past. As a result, the festivities were being held here, at Montmayne, rather than Havenhurst which lacked not only the size needed to accommodate one thousand guests but furnishings as well. Standing on the sidelines of the ballroom, which Ian’s army of florists had transformed into a gigantic bower of flowers, complete with a miniature arbor at the far end, Elizabeth tried with every fiber of her being to ignore the haunting memory of Wordsworth’s visit this morning. No matter how hard she tried, his words still hung over her like a wispy pall, not thick enough to prevent her from carrying on as if all were normal, but there, nonetheless.

Now she was dealing with it the only way she could. Whenever the gloom and dread closed around her, she looked for Ian.  The sight of him, she had discovered in the long hours since their wedding, could banish her doubts and make Wordsworth’s accusations seem as absurd as they undoubtedly were. If Ian weren’t nearby, she did the only other thing she could do – she pinned a bright smile on her face and pretended to herself, and to everyone else, that she was the radiantly happy, carefree bride she was supposed to be. The more she practiced, the more she
felt
like one.

Since Ian had gone to get her a glass of champagne and been waylaid by friends, Elizabeth devoted herself to smiling at the wedding guests who passed by her in an endless stream to wish her happiness, or compliment the lavish decorations or the sumptuous supper they’d been served. The coldness Elizabeth had thought she felt in church this morning now seemed to be a figment of her nervous imagination, and she realized she had misjudged many of these people. True, they had not approved of her conduct two years ago – and how could they? – yet now, most of them seemed genuinely anxious to let the past be laid to rest.

The fact that they were eager to pretend the past hadn’t happened made Elizabeth smile inwardly as she looked again at the glorious decorations. No one but she had realized that the ballroom bore a rather startling resemblance to the gardens at Charise Dumont’s country house, and that the arbor at the side, with its trellised entrance, was a virtual replica of the place where she and Ian had first waltzed that long-ago night.

Across the room, the vicar was standing with Jake Wiley, Lucinda, and the Duke of Stanhope, and he raised his glass to her. Elizabeth smiled and nodded back. Jake Wiley watched the silent communication and beamed upon his little group of companions. “Exquisite bride, isn’t she?” he pronounced, not for the first time. For the past half-hour, the three men had been merrily congratulating themselves on their individual roles in bringing this marriage about, and the consumption of spirits was beginning to show in Duncan and Jake’s increasingly gregarious behavior.

“Absolutely exquisite,” Duncan agreed.

“She’ll make Ian an excellent wife,” said the duke. “We’ve done well, gentlemen,” he added, lifting his glass in yet another congratulatory toast to his companions. “To you, Duncan,” he said with a bow, “for making Ian see the light. “

“To you. Edward,” said the vicar to the duke, “for forcing society to accept them.” Turning to Jake, he added, “And to you, old friend, for insisting on going to the village for the serving women and bringing old Attila and Miss Throckmorton-Jones with you. “

That toast belatedly called to mind the silent duenna who was standing stiffly beside them, her face completely devoid of expression. “And to
you,
Miss Throckmorton-Jones,” said Duncan with a deep, gallant bow, “for taking that laudanum and spilling the truth to me about what Ian did two years ago. ‘Twas that, and that alone, which caused everything else to be put into motion, so to speak. But here,” said Duncan, nonplussed as he waved to a servant bearing a tray of champagne, “you do not have a glass, my dear woman, to share in our toasts.”

“I do not take strong spirits,” Lucinda informed Duncan. “Furthermore, my good man,” she added with a superior expression that might have been a smile or a smirk, “I do
not
take laudanum, either.” And on that staggering announcement, she swept up her unbecoming gray skirts and walked off to dampen the spirits of another group. She left behind her three dumbstruck, staring men who gaped at each other and then suddenly erupted into shouts of laughter.

Elizabeth glanced up as Ian handed her a glass of champagne. “Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him and gesturing to Duncan, the duke, and Jake, who were now convulsed with loud hilarity. “They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves,” she remarked.

Ian absently glanced at the group of laughing men, then back at her. “You’re breathtaking when you smile.”

Elizabeth heard the huskiness in his voice and saw the almost slumberous look in his eyes, and she was wondering about its cause when he said softly, “Shall we retire?”

That suggestion caused Elizabeth to assume his expression must be due to weariness. She, herself, was more than ready to seek the peace of her own chamber, but since she’d never been to a wedding reception before, she assumed that the protocol must be the same as at any other gala affair which meant the host and hostess could not withdraw until the last of the guests had either left or retired. Tonight, every one of the guest chambers would be in use, and tomorrow a large wedding breakfast was planned, followed by a hunt. “I’m not sleepy – just a little fatigued from so much smiling,” she told him, pausing to bestow another smile on a guest who caught her eye and waved. Turning her face up to Ian, she offered graciously, “It’s been a long day. If you wish to retire, I’m sure everyone will understand.”

“I’m sure they will,” he said dryly, and Elizabeth noted with puzzlement that his eyes were suddenly gleaming.

“I’ll stay down here and stand in for you,” she volunteered.

The gleam in his eyes brightened yet more. “You don’t think that my retiring alone will look a little odd?”

Elizabeth knew it might seem impolite, if not precisely odd, but then inspiration struck, and she said reassuringly, “Leave everything to me. I’ll make your excuses if anyone asks.”

His lips twitched. “Just out of curiosity – what excuse will you make for me?”

“I’ll say you’re not feeling well. It can’t be anything too dire though, or we’ll be caught out in the fib when you appear looking fit for breakfast and the hunt in the morning.” She hesitated, thinking, and then said decisively, “I’ll say you have the headache.”

His eyes widened with laughter. “It’s kind of you to volunteer to dissemble for me, my lady, but that particular untruth would have me on the dueling field for the next month, trying to defend against the aspersions it would cause to be cast upon my . . . ah . . . manly character.”

“Why? Don’t gentlemen get headaches?”

“Not,” he said with a roguish grin, “on their wedding night.”

“I can’t see why.”

“Can you not?”

“No. And,” she added with an irate whisper, “I don’t see why everyone is staying down here this late. I’ve never been to a wedding reception, but it does seem as if they ought to be beginning to seek their beds.”

“Elizabeth,” he said, trying not to laugh. “At a wedding reception, the guests cannot leave until the bride and groom retire. If you look over there, you’ll notice my great-aunts are already nodding in their chairs.”